Ian Fleming's James Bond in The Vanguard Secret
by Wesson Smith
Summary: A thrilling adventure involving a mutiny among Britain's nuclear submarine fleet. While HMS Vanguard is on routine patrol a secret cargo is discovered and Commander Dexter Seaton argues to bring it aboard. The Admiralty order Vanguard to stay clear . . .


Ian Fleming's  
JAMES BOND

In

**The Vanguard Secret**

By

Neal Kydd

CONTENTS

Prologue

The Interrogators

License Revoked

'Goodbye M'

Twice Bitten!

Green Daylight

A Glittering Cargo

The Vanguard Secret

Death Wears Jewels

9. Crash Dive

10.The Sunken Fleet

Black Jack

Operation REDAX

'edlaBs – Sixpence – Repulse'

A friend of yours, Mr. Bond?

ENFalcon

A short 'Goodbye'

Prologue 

_Kilchoan bay, West coast of Scotland, 2005_

Massimo Firenze watched the ice pick lifted high. The resulting crack as the white block shattered echoed round the warehouse. He continued on as gnarled hands spread the ice into crates brimming with fresh Lobster. A brief glance over his shoulder satisfied him that his car couldn't be seen from the ferry. He'd abandoned the rusted Capris above Kilchoan Harbour at 6.30am. Disposal of the vehicle would be taken care of by Executrix 3.

It was 8.15 and the catch was in. The boats had been out since four. Looking out to sea from the blackened jetty, Massimo shivered slightly and wondered what his next target would look like. What sort of man would gamble his life against a Firenze?  
A loaded fork lift crawled by, shuddering with life. The lobster's tied claws and whip-like antennae would twitch for hours before the creatures finally suffocated. Massimo pulled up his collar as he considered their pathetic struggle. Death in all its forms fascinated him - from boyhood days spent hunting on the Alban Hills to his present line of work, he loved the kill.

His long black hair flew into his eyes as he stamped his feet and blew steadily onto his cold hands. There was a south westerly breeze blowing in and dark clouds were crossing the Sound of Mull. The executioner pushed his hands into his pockets and turned his back to the sea, while deliberating his own fate. Kilchoan was a remote place, devoid of any pleasure, of any Italian warmth, of all the wonderful things Massimo loved about Tuscany. It would be a pity to end such a beautiful life here . . .

After taking several pulls from his brandy flask he bought a ticket from the office on the pier-head, nodding his thanks to the ruddy cheeked clerk. Tomorrow he would take the ferry as per instruction, but tonight he would rest up. The latest exercise was a tough assignment. More than one team to be co-ordinated . . . He looked out into the raging storm that was forcing its way across the bay. The press of his shoulder holster suddenly reminded him of his devout loyalty to _Il directore_ . . . 'Stay On schedule', he whispered to himself. The temporal quality of his life often flashed before his eyes. The only faith he allowed himself now was duty.

When the storm reached Kilchoan a pelting hail struck the village. On the steep walk to the safe-house Massimo sheilded his face from the stinging ice. He ignored the plodding figures that acknowledged him, keeping his head down and hurrying on through thin alleyways. The light fell to a gunmetal gray. By the time he reached Black Cuttle Rise he was frozen through.

The tiny fisherman's cottage looked a peaceful haven in the wintry light. Its thick walls showing little effect of the hard Scottish winters. Massimo glanced at his watch. It had been a long drive from London and he was now fifteen minutes behind schedule. How disconcerting to be working the job with a team. 'Tripled units, without exacting co-ordination and total trust, were a hot-bed for disaster,' he said aloud, adding several profanities. His thoughts drifted again. The agent Bond seemed always to work alone . . .  
Massimo had been tailing James Bond since he'd moved from Chelsea. The relocation of the British double-O agents was his controller's first directive.  
"We might disturb the wasps nest a little, Mr. Massimo. A mild shake up to get everyone out of bed, so to speak." He had been proved right. Agent Bond made several errors of judgement while operating out of Knightsbridge, instead of his precious Chelsea retreat. Minor errors , all told, but the type a professional would eventually regret. There were protocols to be followed even when on suspension, as in Bond's case, but now Bond was no longer his worry.

He stooped briefly on entering the heavy front door, suspecting that the white packet waiting for him on the mantlepiece contained a new target. Taking up the envelope he opened it slowly, his fingers stiff with cold. Eventually the tightly folded blue card unraveled in his hands. He read the name then looked hard at the small photograph. Later, while the picture burned with a green flame, he gave a wry smile. At five O'clock Massimo went quickly down a short passageway and unlocked the door to the cellar. Contrary to popular opinion the Royal Navy is a soft target, he mused. This was a bounty worth taking. The bounty of a lifetime.

**Chapter 1.**

**The Interrogators**

_Scapa Flow, Scotland, 2005_

He brought the man in under cover of darkness. After three days of conditioning Intern-8 was transferred to Central-Five. Billeted here were experts in the field of interrogation. Massimo knew these men were trained not only to extract information but to reverse the programming of a subject. However, belief adjustment and psychological refits held little interest for him. The acute deconstruction of the human mind was a science only his clients took seriously. They likened the softening of the will to the careful picking of a complex lock. But before undergoing re-alignment all interns were physically conditioned. Massimo knew exactly what this decreed. In room 35C Intern-8's punishment was already in progress . . .

Gloved hands removed the steel pliers from a grimy sink, their curved grips were flecked with blood. Another man was rummaging through a jar of dental instruments. Among the rusted scalpels and broken drill bits he withdrew a thin probe. A soft voice murmured, "We'll achieve nothing more at this point." The controller let go of the probe with a sigh and walked toward a microphone, "session two closed," he said, "immunisation to core beliefs moving to standard 5. Hose down!" He stood away from the tape machine and watched his men go to work.

Moments later Intern-8 heard steam jets blast the walls and floor, as the scalding gas cleaned blood spatters from the tiled surfaces, hot lights were switched out and surgical gloves squeaked and snapped on removal. After the cell door was finally slammed shut a curt silence pressurised the room.

Alone the prisoner removed his blindfold.

It had taken three hours to extract Lt. Masterton's teeth - four molars and two upper incisors. Now, through half closed eyes he saw them lying in a metal dish in front of him - the nerves cut away, the roots drilled full of holes. Without anaesthetic that much pain had proved intolerable. Masterton had passed out twice during his interrogation.

Minutes after the last extraction he'd come round with a jolt. The sensation of regaining consciousness had made him nauseas. He'd hawked several times to clear his throat, but the taste of metal and blood stayed in his mouth. Now, as he pensively examined his jaw, he wondered where they were holding him. But he couldn't think straight, recalling only the arduous climb to the interrogation centre; the deeply rusted stairwells, dripping walls, signage in Black Letter German . . . It was of little use.

Through pain narrowed eyes he examined the room. A thin mist hung in the air, thickened by his own breath. It carried a heady smell of must and sweat. There were no windows and even the tiny air vents on the door were closed. In the flickering green light he could just make out the shapes of dental lighting pods fastened to the wall. Their cyclopean heads stared back at him like monstrous sentinels. The Merrick tape machine suddenly reached the end of its loop and switched off with a loud clunk. Masterton straightened himself and looked up. Long minutes passed as he watched tiny beads of moisture form and drip from the ceiling. At times they splashed onto his upturned his face. He knew instinctively there was no chance of escape.

The two men briefly shook hands and sat down. A crisp folder was pushed across the desk. Aged hands took up the exemplary service record of Lieutenant Ian Bruce Masterton, RN, and casually scanned the details. Average height - green eyes - thick set jaw - nicknamed _Stock_ since commission. Twice commended in action, having fought engagements in the Falkland Islands and Gulf War I. Ambitious and energetic. Common knowledge his superiors thought highly of him, and that Stock Masterton is a born leader.

Here in Central-Five the records of all interns were scrutinized for minute details - tiny hooks that an interrogator could use to infiltrate a given mind-set.  
"How long do you think Intern-8 has been working for the directorate?" asked Dr. Steel.

"We have no information. Maybe be several years? A sleeper, you might say."

As if to enforce his mood, the director stood up and walked over to the drinks table. He continued casually. "It is possible that he is inactive at present. Found himself in difficulty and –"

"No. Absolutely not. Too co-incidental." Interrupted Steel. "He is 'live' Active! We must find out who his director is." Steel's anger was quietly acknowledged. The director winced at its shrill sound, finished pouring himself a brandy and returned to his desk.  
"You know his social record I suppose?" Dr. Steel sighed, hearing the upward inflection, and readied himself for a lecture. Steel was a man who preferred being left alone to do his job. Incidentals and interruptions had no place in his work. 'What did these people really know of his skills? Pain was what interns understood, pain and deprivation,' Steel muttered to himself beneath his breath. The director took three quick gulps of brandy, noting the frustrated face in front of him. As he placed the glass softly down on the table he began talk.

"Masterton's shore life is less celebrated than his service record. On H.M.S. Neptune the boy enjoyed having fun, lots of fun. Rugged looks, always popular with women. Both Naval wives and civvies were fair-game to him. He chose carefully at the beginning - but fell victim to one beautiful temptation too many. The usual story with such types. A long and particularly bitter affair with Lt. Collins' wife followed; that rather stunning brunette." A photograph was flicked onto the table end. The pretty face brought a smile from Dr. Steel. The director nodded. "It all ended acrimoniously - particularly due to heavy losses at the gambling tables. In consequence Masterton found himself forced to live on credit. Not the usual man to get into serious troubles. However several days ago he made a grave error. One that will be his excuse – and, in turn, our grudge."

"I see. So there _is_ a crack in the golden boy's façade . . . " Steel overtly licked his dry lips in anticipation of exploiting Masterton's weakness.

"Mistakes happen. Do whatever you think will work."

"I must know if he has reported home, and to whom"  
"It is in your hands entirely." The director finished his drink. The office door opened automatically and Michael Steel was dismissed.

As he turned to leave, the director of Central-five pressed his intercom. "Miss Drake, will you bring me Dr. Steel's file." Steel froze to the spot. He turned as if to say something but the director spoke first. "Keep me informed of any breakthroughs. Good day, Dr. Steel." The director switched his attention to Masterton's file. He tidied it then placed it neatly back onto a pile of red folders. To Central-Five Masterton was only different from the other interns in one way. He would take time and effort to crack. Time they didn't have.

As Dr. Steel entered the lift to the interrogation centre, he understood there was no longer any question of failure.

In treatment cell 35c Masterton's troubles turned over in his mind . . .

During a long and difficult watch on exercise _Green Flotilla_ he'd been offered the chance to improve his fortune. After juggling the idea for a few days, wondering what the cost to his life and record might be if he were caught, he decided to cut himself in. He owed sizeable debts at Faslane, debts he could no longer honour. Recently he'd suspected that the 'officers club' at Clyde was fixed; that he was set-up. It was only a matter of time before his marker was called in and his financial position exposed. So he had to do something about it quickly. At first this little job seemed a worthwhile risk, but its minutely planned interception proved a disaster. Unable to dispose of the stuff at the dead-drop he'd been caught in possession by a runner.

He swallowed hard. The memory of that night had become fog ridden, many of its details turned dreamlike. His illegal imprisonment, torture and interrogation were slowly breaking him. Days had passed. He cricked his neck and looked down at his hands. They were shaking. To his surprise he was unable to stop them. In fact the trembling had got steadily worse. He glanced at his bloodied reflection in the aluminium table. He must pull himself together. What did they actually have on him? Nothing really, just one small parcel of goods. One interception. Surely that wasn't proof enough. He must continue to bluff it out and hang on. He'd heard tales of others who'd been under suspicion. Once they'd been cleared no more was said.

He reached forward and propped his muscular arms against the cool metal, and with a concerted effort tried to stand. But it was no use. The pain raced back into his jaw. His head swam. He tottered backwards, put an arm out to steady himself but instead slumped sideways into the chair. Wringing his fingers through his matted hair he realised he couldn't remember his last meal.

Half an hour passed. Masterton spent it shivering in the gloom. He examined the table once again – the bloodied items – a dental drill, mirror and probe, half rolled in a filthy rag. Next to them rusted pairs of files and scalpels stood soaking in a jug of water. Weapons left for his quick exit perhaps? Another suicide case –another footnote to a promising career - his death their cover story?

It was only a matter of hours before his torturers returned. In a moment of clarity he gently probed the soft cavities of his mouth with his tongue, trying not to disturb the blood clots. Having assessed the damage to his teeth he recalled how much he'd told them . . .

They would check his story, no doubt, ponder his facts – or lies. Dammit! It wasn't science that had made him talk, just sheer cruelty. They'd gone to work on him slowly, like predators toying with a half-killed beast. In his mind's eye he could still see their hunched silhouettes probing and pulling at his mouth - human insects dismembering a live prey.

A wave of flash-backs hit him. Hot lights pushed into his face. White hot! Frozen images of leering faces, of glinting metal . . . then blackness. The blindfold tightened against his head. Again he heard the rasping voice:

"Intern-8 , tell us how many are involved - tell us and we can begin to talk as friends."

His mouth forced open, a drill pushed in and pressed to each tooth in turn. For a few seconds he felt nothing, then he began to scream. Christ, how he'd screamed! . . . The pain – tearing at his mind, filling every second; the strong hands smothering his flailing resistance, clawing at his face, pinning his arms, forcing him down . . .

He'd struggled with all his might, but they'd quickly fastened his wrists and ankles with cable ties that cut deeply into his skin. And when there was nothing left to drill against they'd taken steel pliers and ripped the pulped nerves from his jaw. So much blood! It had gushed from his mouth and nose. He recalled spitting great gouts of it onto the floor and table. Only then had the rasping, rapid fire voice faded into nothingness.

The images slowed . . . drawing himself back to the present he breathed deeply, stretched out his legs and tried to relax. There was no use in remembering - no point in dragging himself down any further. He leaned back in the chair and began to assemble a story. Not knowing what he might say when they got hold of him again, he went over and over the past few days combining fact and fiction until they mingled in a complex twine. Slim strands of truth carefully placed in a coherent story would keep these people guessing. They might also help to keep him alive.

The green cell light flickered out. In the darkness Masterton began to hyperventilate. He heard the marine escort beat up to the door and mark time. Pressing his hands flat upon the table he desperately tried to still his nerves. A viewing shutter snapped aside. Dark eyes looked in. His mouth burned dry as the heavy bolt was drawn back. "Remove the prisoner!"

Suddenly the door was flung open and two men snatched him out of the chair. He was dragged backwards from the cell and pulled along a brightly lit corridor, his feet air peddling across the scarred lino.

"Take him to block A6."

On entering the room he was greeted with a flash of blue light that whispered and crackled hotly between two metal plates. A voice barked out from the unlit cell. "Alright, stand him there." The uniformed escort aligned him to the wall and turned to take up sentry positions either side of the door. A heavy brute in a boiler suit appeared. Masterton turned away as the door was closed quietly. The beam from a spot lamp crossed his vision, nearly blinding him, whilst another figure emerged from the shadows. Dark eyes bored into Masterton's pitiful face; a sly smile stitched to the thin freckled cheeks silently mocked him.

"So you're not going to co-operate, Masterton? You think we don't know who you're really working for?" A broad Scottish accent rattled from the other man, tearing the silence, shocking the lieutenant into wakefulness. "If you're not the bastard causing all the trouble, then I'm going to take it out on you anyway!"

Masterton could barely stand as his interrogator began yelling at him. A small chair was smashed against the wall next to his head. Tempers flared. The interrogator walked to his left, then turned swiftly and kicked Masterton in the base of the spine. Crumpled to an agonising heap the Lt. gasped, but he was picked smartly off the floor and laid flat on a bench. The burly figure rushed forward and clamped a leather mask over his face. As it was tightened down Masterton glared through its wire grill, watching 'boilersuit' tie his legs together.

His breath shortened. He was sweating profusely now. Retching so hard he had to swallow quickly to stop himself from vomiting inside the mask. Slowly they hoisted him upright while electrodes were taped into position on his body. A dial on a transformer buzzed. The hot blue lights sparked again as he was finally pitched into a chair. He thought about the last shipment - mustn't give away the carrier. Must hang on . . .

But in truth they'd been onto him from the start. From the way the questions came at him now they already knew something about the dead-drop. An insider? He should never have intercepted their courier. Unfortunately for Masterton it was too late for regrets.

A loud crack and his bruised feet shook involuntarily. His eyes glazed over and his broken teeth sank deeply into the leather bit. Pain like a shower of red-hot needles swept through his body.

"Tell me a name Masterton. The name of the man who gave you the drop zone. The man you reported to?" The flint edged voice repeated the question in his ear. But his skull was pounding – it was too difficult to concentrate. Masterton gave no answer. The voltage dial was wound into the yellow sector. The enquiry began again, "His name . . . a name. . . just a name."

A powerful shock – a red flash in front of his closed eyes.

"Firenze!" The identity was forced from Masterton's lips in a half scream. Biting into his tongue, he determined not to add anything more. Another pause, then a tremendous jolt lifted him off the bench. His heart faltered and his muscles jerked into spasm as he slammed back down on the wood with a guttural cry. A suited man came into view. A man that Masterton immediately recognised. He approached and looked closely into the mask. He seemed rather surprised to find the Lieutenant still alive. The large violet jewel he wore round his neck threw a purple light into Stock's eyes. He heard him shout to the men still laughing at his contortions. "There is nothing I can do for you Stock, unless you help us."

The interrogation continued, and between the electrically induced fits Masterton prayed - was one mistake worth all this?

A hissing CRACK!

Again the room spun from his eyes and he bit down harder to fight the searing pain. Coughing to clear his throat of phlegm, he shuddered as cold water was thrown onto his legs and the switch was thrown again. The air in the cell had grown thick with the stench of burning skin. It was almost impossible for anyone to draw breath. Again the voice came close to his ears, speaking softly . . . in a tender whisper it caressed him . . . 'It's alright, alright. Calmly now . . . We'll stop for a while, Ian." There was a pause followed by the order, "Take off his mask." The sodden leather hood was removed and a chalk-white face stared up at its captor. The thin-lipped mouth smiled into the blood-shot eyes.

"Talk to me Masterton. Tell me why. Why are you working with this man Firenze? Did he give you the target intercept? Where did you think you could get rid of the goods? Tell me and all this will stop. You'll be fed, showered, given a clean bed to sleep in. I can make you very comfortable - or as you can see, and feel, very uncomfortable. It's up to you Stock."

The sound of the voice swept across his mind. The image of a clear summer's day came to him. He was nine years old and with his sister playing on swings in the park. The day faded. The edges of the vision turning to ashes like a burning photograph. He glanced behind the talker, at the shiny rubber gloved hand turning the dial to maximum power. His interrogators suddenly stood away again. This time they watched the frail body jump straight up in the air, its hair literally standing on end. As Masterton fell his face screwed itself into a terrifying rictus. Falling, falling to earth, his chest heaving, his eyes bulging . . .

The voice exploded, "Why Masterton? Why? - You haven't told me why yet!"– Its rasp switched quickly from seething anger to cold indifference. But now there was little left to reason with. The questions were repeated over and over, but poor Masterton didn't break his silence. A silence that had begun to claim him.

On coming round Ian Masterton alternately saw shapes and lights. He wondered whether he was dead or alive. An hour later, drifting in and out of consciousness, he was not even sure who he was.

The night wore on. He heard them fill a bath with water and before long was carried into a filthy cubicle. Afterwards the electrodes were removed and thrown to the back of the room. One of the men kicked hard at the heap of tangled wires.

"Bastard! It's no use – maybe we're wrong. Perhaps Firenze was a decoy? I cannot believe that the man who brought him in was the same man who set this up. Makes no sense. Something stinks about it. I smell a double-cross - by god if I don't! Who planned the Op?"

"Seaton."

"Nay possible! Talk to him. He were wi' me when we caught Masterton. The packages were open I tell ya! Stock was swapping the goods. The whole game woulda been up if it wisnay for Dex. Now leave him to us!"

"Alright, alright –" The dark suited, elderly man interrupted. His unshaven face looking ever more ghoulish in the stark light. "Masterton's tough. The toughest we've had. But now there isn't much left to question!" The boiler suited Scot placed his hand on the man's shoulder, spat on the stained floor, then said mildly, "We'll continue till he chirps. That's orders."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then there's no need to worry, sir, is there?"

Finally Ian Masterton was taken out and returned to his holding cell. He'd not slept in three days. Barely conscious, they questioned him again that night, fed him a meal and then fed him later with emetics. After his sickness he lay naked on the concrete floor of his cell. The fierce halogen light burning into his eyes. He curled himself into a foetal ball, abstracted from the real world, and in flights of fantasy guided his mind away from the situation, from the fatal knowing, from the painful suffering, from suggestion and remembrance - yet still somehow nerving himself to block the truth from escaping his lips.

All through his tortures that night they played white noise to hammer his senses. First ear splittingly loud, then fading into brief respite, only to blare again . . . and again.

He was taken out twice more, first at 1.30 am and again at 3am. And by the time the boiler suited man had finished his work Masterton had had to talk. It didn't seem to matter anymore.

The next morning the long drop into the escape tower pool felt as beautiful as a cool shower on a hot day. Masterton's twisted form floated for a while, then the weights tied to his legs were tossed in with him and he began to sink. At twenty meters the light slipped away. At forty he felt like he was floating on air. Bright sunlight shone in the back of his mind. What more had he told them? Nothing he hoped. Lieutenant Ian Masterton – 025417WSD1 was no grass, no squealer, no tell-tale. He recalled perfectly that day at school when he'd failed his best friend. He'd vowed never to snitch again. Now, of course, it wasn't his fault. But a whispered word, 'traitor' repeated in the depths of his conscience like the distant blip of a sonar pulse. Sleep came over him softly as the strange lights in his head ebbed away. A cold darkness entered his soul. His legs hit the bottom first, but he didn't feel them. Lieutenant Masterton no longer felt anything at all . . .

**Chapter 2**

**License Revoked!**

_Late Autumn, London._

James Bond turned jauntily out of Half Moon street and walked smartly across Berkeley square. He was justifiably pleased having ordered up a case of '82 Margeaux from Widmark's, at a price way below present values. A tipped investment into the vintage years ago had finally paid off. Bond had bought a profitable future. Something to be commended in any walk of life. Looking to right and left of him the parks were full of yellow gold and away in the distance Hampstead Heath glittered with sunshine. The 'false spring' was taunting him that life outside the service could be as sweet as summers spent in Italy. He smiled and chose to indulge the feeling. 'La dolce vita' rarely called to him so loudly. But in actual fact his manner was as false as the weather.

On entering the Burlington Arcade he began to examine his leave in a more sombre light. The enquiry against him was still two weeks away. A date that chilled the blood each time he crossed it. This time he distracted himself by admiring a blue serge suit in the window of Maybricks. He'd enjoyed the morning strolling the cobbled lanes of Shepherd's Market without a care in the world. Yet it was difficult to reconcile his off duty life with service work. Lately he'd had rather more than his share of bad luck. He had been suspended, pending a new hearing. And when duty and expectation were weighed against his recent achievements, it certainly looked bad for him. If only his first week's leave hadn't been entirely swallowed by that change of address, he might have had chance to relax and see things more clearly. Instead he'd suffered a nasty upheaval all told. And when the decorating novelty had worn off he'd spent days pacing the new flat like a caged cougar.

That steel nerve which kept him alive through so many tight spots, and which seemed to have left him, had returned. His recent medical reports told the whole story. The last job had knocked him sideways. A mash of broken codes, badly handled informants, tough objectives and complex orders, all without clear definition.

"Avoidable mistakes, OO7, which finally culminated in the death of OO5." The C.O.S. had put it coldly. Grant Burnes was a good man, an agent dedicated to M and the Service - one of Bond's closest friends. The hard facts had challenged Bond's reputation.

'Damn them to hell', he hissed. He'd always enjoyed Burne's company. The man was full of witty grenades that livened up even the driest of surveillance ops. But incredibly M had absolved Bond of any blame in the 'Kendrick' affair.  
"There was nothing more you could have done to save agent Burne's life, James. Absolutely nothing." But not everyone had agreed with him. In fact Bond had been cold shouldered by many of his peers since the incident. The last straw had been his notification of Court Martial. It seemed on this point even Tanner was against him.

Reaching the end of the arcade he stopped still. Deep in thought he gazed coldly at _The Ritz_ before hailing a cab. A taxi angled out of the flow of traffic and drew up beside him. He opened the door, only to be brushed aside by a grande American dame, complete with armfuls of bags and a voluminous fur coat. "Aw, thank ya kindly," she drawled. The driver ignored Bond's discontented look, and smoothly rejoined the unending flow of growling metal. As Bond walked toward Green Park tube he saw the number 70 lurch around the corner. Totally on impulse he stepped lightly onto the platform and went upstairs. It was years since he'd taken the bus and today was a perfect day for it. Stretching out across the backseat he watched the fly-blown streets crawl by, quietly assessing the morality of his recent actions . . .

At times the espionage business was a dirty business. The cold blooded kill a side of it he disliked most. A girl to be gotten rid of - his responsibility. Albeit his chance to get even with the killer of his friend. Alright, he'd done it, and certainly well enough. But it was one hell of a job and the days following had found him disenchanted. It had led to his enforced leave and the impending disciplinary. It wouldn't have mattered quite so much if he'd been Court Martialed and drafted out of the double - O section there and then, but this blasted wait! This feeling of impending doom that hovered on his every move. It was a cold lingering death, lacking any coup de grace.  
Of course, there was always a chance M might speak up for him. But after that last interview? It had been one of the worst blastings the old man had given him. And when he received notice of his suspension, while at the same time learning the desk-top battle group had found fault with M's conclusions, well -

Bond steered his thinking in another direction, ending with the thought that no matter what, no minister would ever pull a bloody trigger.

As the braids of Bond's life twisted and turned in his mind, each steel accent, each flint shard of past operations threw a diminishing light onto his future. After all those years of success, was failure dogging him now? He sat up straight so a frumpish looking woman could sit down beside him. A thick cloud cover was blowing in. The sunlit sky was dying. He'd read something about depression once. Was this it? This feeling of dread. This utter waste of minutes, hours and days just thinking in circles? He lit a senior service, and, keeping it out of sight, smoked the thing carefully until he reached the cork tip.

Suddenly the bus jolted and a big fella loaded with Harrod's bags shot towards the front. Bond smiled to himself then paid rapt attention to a pretty brunette below him in an MG. She was furiously waving the driver on while jammed in fourth. This spot of confusion continued for some time.

His immediate concern was domestic boredom. A new enemy. He was absolutely itching for something to do. All this scrabbling around for homely clutter bred soft habits. But until the hearing was over and he was given a clean bill he suspected nothing would come his way . . .

The girl below suddenly accelerated into a parking bay, and the bus heaved itself into the stone arteries behind Oxford Street. He packed away his despondancy and turned his mind back a little. Was it really three weeks ago when he'd given in to M and taken a new address?

"You're the last operative to relocate OO7. And the unrepeatable remarks you made to Chief of Staff have echoed round this floor for months. I've never in my life heard such a fuss. It is a perfectly simple request: double - O agents are to relocate every two to three years. Makes sense, doesn't it? Minister thinks so. Had no complaints from anyone else! Yours really is the limit."

M had slammed his pipe down on the desk in emphasis of his displeasure.

Bond half agreed with him. "I'm sorry sir, but my current address was far better than those proffered. I've grown fond of the place."

"Too damn fond, if you ask me! " M's clear grey eyes squinted up at him from the pile of brown folders on his desk. "We can't afford to be overly sentimental OO7! And, dare I say, about Chelsea of all places!" M walked moodily across the office to a filing cabinet, turning his back on Bond for a moment. Bond took a deep breath, smoothed his hair and straightened his tie. When M returned several photos and maps were shoved at him. "Now which is it to be? Come along! I've got a meeting with the FO at ten." Looking at the details upside down, in cold response James Bond stabbed his finger down on one, albeit arbitrarily, then turned to leave.

"OO7! I haven't dismissed you yet."

"Sorry Sir, something more?" Bond asked nonchalantly. But Sir Miles was almost grinning. It had been a sure-fire game of cat and mouse this relocation. A game Bond knew he could never win, but had hoped to delay further than the three stolid months he'd already managed. Now his bet with Bill Tanner was about to fall Chief of Staff's way. Pity that, another month and it would have trebled the original stake. M breathed heavily. "No. Nothing more. That will be all OO7. See you in three weeks. Report to quartermaster for the arrangements. Oh, and try to forget the Kendrick affair. Put it behind you for a while. We'll face the disciplinary when it comes. That's an order!"

"Yes, sir." James Bond turned to the double padded door and left M's office, somewhat more sheepishly than he'd entered. There had been no encouraging words on his fate, only a push into new accommodation.

As the door closed M reached for his leather tobacco pouch and settled back in his armchair. He started to refill his pipe. All this molly cuddling was not for OO7. A short suspension, and then, with the minister's blessing, back on the job. That was the man's only hope now. And if for some reason it failed to materialise, OO7 would be retired - once and for all . . .

Bond got off the route master at Camarthan Terrace and walked smartly up to the red brick porch of number 54. His recent treatment by his section still rankled. 'Damn all paper shufflers!' he said to himself. And as for moving out of his precious flat, well, he at least thought May would have been disappointed. She'd been giving him the silent treatment until he faced her with the news.

"Ach, Mister James – what a pity. I know how much yer like it here. But such a fuss o'er a wee bitty thing like moving? You should be ashamed of yersel! I don't like to say it – but these past two months you've been hard to take!" She coughed deliberately after the remark, then went about her duties with more gusto than usual.

He'd considered letting her go. It was high-time she went back to her sister in Broughty Ferry. Edie was very ill and had been for some time. But May was having none of it.

"Oh, you must neh worry yersel' mister James. She'll soon be as right as rain. It's just a toucha flu. Look, we'll scrub the new place from top to bottom. It'll feel like home again before yer can say Jack Robinson!"

Now, sat in his little study in a wide armchair, well-sprung for solid comfort, and away from the contractors finishing the lounge, Bond cracked his newspaper to stiffen it at the Home page.

There were few troop movements reported that day, but a small piece on the drowned body of an officer at Firth of Clyde Base caught his eye. The poor fellow had been found at the bottom of a Submarine Escape Training Tank (SETT). Bond remembered completing the test himself. One follows a shot line on descent and there were safety divers placed at 10m intervals. All the instructors could free-dive the 30 metre tank, and Firth of Clyde's emergency facility was by far the latest and best of its kind . . .

Bond looked up as the study door opened slowly. May entered and beamed him a smile. She placed the breakfast tray with its hot toast, coffee and a single boiled egg on a mahogany side table. A smart looking hand delivered letter lay next to the delicate Minton teapot. That 'torpedo' can wait thought Bond. He'd only just settled down. He collapsed his paper with a flourish.

"Thanks May. Not too noisy for you out there is it?"

"Not at all, sir. I was about to ask you the very same. But I've closed the hall exit just in case." She left swiftly, quietly shutting the door behind her. She knew best when to let him be. The tall, handsome, grey suited figure remained in her thoughts as she sat down in the tiny scullery, darning a round hole in the arm of his best tweed jacket. But a little bird had told her that soon Mr. James would be flying the nest.

Alone with his thoughts Bond paced the room, tossing and turning his ideas on retirement, the Service and the state of his funds. There had been no woman in his life for some time. Should he factor one in? Was he cut out for the suburban urbanity of marriage, and, god help him, children? But M's R and R policy. The ensuing enquiry . . . and the big IFs which hung over his next assignment. He sighed and opened a window to take a deep breath of London air. It mixed with the curdled smell of fresh paint. That last roll of carpet was _still_ being hammered into place in the main lounge. Lord above! Couldn't a man get any peace? Well, if this was what retirement would be like, 'la dolce vita' could wait.

Bond sat down to his toast and soft boiled egg and devoured them quickly. A few minutes later he broke the seal on the official letter. His summons to the office for 9am the next morning was as blunt as it was brief.

Chapter 3 

**Goodbye M!**

"Stand back please sir!" came the order. The crash of masonry echoed in the underground tunnels. Among the wreckage two men stood opposite each other. The first, angrily glaring at the mess, drew heavily on his briar stemmed pipe. Twisted Concrete blocks, torn away by the blast, were being cleared from his feet. The other man was examining the great iron doors to Bunker 4W, that now resembled crumpled paper. M scowled at Leonard Pettigrew, bent down and delved into the sheaves of secret files flung everywhere, years of work torn to pieces. Pettigrew nodded to him grimly.

"It seems every damned department in Whitehall's using Deposit 7 to archive their old signals, what!"

"Yes. You know the inventory is incomplete, I suppose?"

"Yes, _we_ do."

"In 81, when everything went computerised, I was obliged to send down twenty years worth of Top Secret material. Against my better judgement. Now the unthinkable has happened. Two crates have been stolen. Everything SIS had on operation Purple Garden. The theft's an ugly job too. As you can see. No sophisticated means used, just twenty pounds of high explosive. The blast was impossible to hear above ground. Afraid I've only just been informed."

"Yes, Yes . . ." Pettigrew winced, thinking to himself that M always sounded like an automaton. "I know all about it Miles. Hmm? – You seem surprised. Stolen papers call for emergency meetings - at the very top. Suppose _you_ know that much, what?"

M bit his lip. The sarcasm was usual with Leonard. This man was a worrier, not a warrior! Sir Miles chose not mention that his request for the removal of the papers was still sat on Moneypenny's desk. But if there was an information leak on his turf, he'd find it, not this man.

Lt. Masterton's death had given M the breakthrough he'd been waiting for. He understood these bunkers held the key to a baffling series of events. The latest developments of a case that had puzzled him for three years. But the robbery had come too swiftly. M walked slowly toward the back of the damaged safe. Up until now there had been nothing tangible to go on. The accidental deaths, or timely disappearance, of Vanguard fleet personnel couldn't be tied to anything. Even the early whisper of a cartel selling Naval secrets to a middle eastern conglomerate had been crushed by his preliminary investigation. No other political force had shown an interest. The trouble was purely home-grown, and after this M was doubly sure of it.

He threw down some tattered dockets with an exasperated sigh and squared up forcibly to Pettigrew. "I knew Major Hallward Leonard. A difficult man? Yes. A high minded man? Perhaps, but I can vouch that he was completely trustworthy. And that's for the record, any bloody record!"

"When did you last see him Miles?"

"Four years ago. He had all the information on 'ENFalcon' with him. The ship was untouched. RMS DORIC was confirmed unsalvageable. We made sure a counter measure was left in place, in case of further trouble, and Washington arranged to make a bathymetric survey of the site and contact me if there was ever any change. We brought up two samples of the cargo, and still nobody knows what the hell the stuff is, or what use it could be to anyone. The nearest we got to an idea was some astrophysicist's suggestion. A lot of twaddle about dark energy and the stones ability to absorb it into its atomic spectrum - "

"Fears of another force muscling in, hmm?" Pettigrew grinned at his schoolboy joke.

"None," said M flatly.

The face opposite him smiled in silent wonder. Here, Pettigrew thought, was a man with a completely unblemished record. An absolute paragon of the old school. There was nothing on him but accolade after accolade, more brass than a dozen coal buckets, but all that was about to change.

"ENFalcon' was your pigeon M. The section set up in 77 reported only to you. And under your guarantees we gave you all we had." Pettigrew scratched his head. "I'm not trying to lay blame. And you needn't think this is personal, but –"

M jabbed his pipe stem at him. "C'mon, I wasn't born yesterday Leonard. Don't give me that flannel. I can put a man on it without all the ballyhoo! What the devil do you want?" Pettigrew stepped back a pace, absently shining the violet stone set into his dress ring.

"One of our little couriers has been found drowned M! In fact there are even some ugly rumours about torture. I hope, for your sake, that isn't the case, but if it proves so and our man has cracked then the roof will blow off this thing - sky high." He looked at M and wondered how he'd take what was coming to him. "Now, what do I want with you? First, can we find a man to stem the tide? A man better equipped than King Canute, pray?"

M paced back and forth before giving his answer. The cool grey eyes calculating the man's probable response. Pettigrew, for his part, was in an airy mood. It wasn't his mess. For once the trail stopped dead at M's door. Leonard Pettigrew simply stared straight back at the head of the British Secret Service and never gave an inch, safe in the knowledge that the last of the Bowler hat brigade was marching to his doom in front of him. The Admiralty brass band, as he called M and his tribe, could play as loudly as they liked, but the old tub they were sailing in was sinking! As for the Service, in a few days, if all went to plan, he could start thinking about M's shoe size . . .

M, who saw the look of disgust come his way, turned to look again at Bunker 4W. The broken concrete was covered with salts. He dipped his finger in the chalky deposit and rubbed it into his palm.

"I take it then, Leonard, you will ask for my resignation if a rescue fails?" Miles caught the excited eyes. 'When winning this man is very dangerous indeed' thought M. But how would he cope with failure? M continued without pause, "I have someone in mind who will put things right. A good man, and by chance he's been rested."

"Well, he'd better be damn good. If not the PM _will_ be asking for your resignation . . . By chance, does this chap do as he's told?"

M's temper flared, "the man I have in mind knows his job! Unlike some Leonard."

Pettigrew narrowed his gaze, "Alright. Let him have a crack. In the meantime you are on sus – You are to take as much time as you need to think things over Miles. Sorry. Here's the PM's letter. The F.O has been informed. Fraid it's been kept quiet from your lot." Pettigrew's thick lips bulged into a leer as he took a slim envelope from his inside pocket and held it out. M read it but remained firm.

"And who the hell is going to direct the operation while – while I'm away sunning myself? Hmm, you Leonard?"

"It makes perfect sense M. You must understand that? Besides, the PM quite agrees. Perhaps it is time you yourself had a little rest?"

M froze to the spot. Pettigrew snatched the letter back and tucked it away in his inside pocket. "You will be taken abroad Miles. Kept in some comfort I believe. So let's just hope your chap manages to clean up this mess. Whatever you have already compiled will be briefed to him. Afraid that's all I've been instructed to say. Your escort to the airport is waiting up top.

Goodbye M."

James Bond woke just after dawn. He exercised briskly, ate a healthy portion of lightly scrambled eggs and bacon, followed by wheat-germ toast covered in Frank Cooper's thick-cut marmalade, then packed a small suitcase for himself. He was particularly careful when settling his shoulder holster. The soft chamois leather was designed for quick draws. He practiced several times until the action felt natural and smooth. The drive into town took him longer than usual as he took a small detour round the park. After all, it was a pleasant morning and he was early.

Walking down the thickly carpeted corridor, it was only after he'd passed Bill Tanner's office that he realised he'd forgotten the Chief's winnings. Would he be forgiven? Something odd niggled him as emerged from pass point 2. The place seemed too quiet. Traffic had been light and there was almost none of the usual bustle going on. Perhaps the underworld had been suspended? As he arrived at Moneypenny's desk he spotted the glowing green light above M's door. He was just about to enter when she called him back.

"Oh James, I'm afraid Sir Miles has been called away on urgent business. He's liable to be gone for up to six weeks. He left an urgent message for you to see Colonel Tanner. He'll bring you up to speed. And Sir Leonard Pettigrew will be covering as of Friday."

Bond found himself rooted to the spot. "Good grief, I've only been gone two minutes Penny, and the darn place is falling into enemy hands!" He said, looping his scarf down over her head and pulling her slowly towards him. "I thought the place seemed quiet. Now be a good girl and tell me what's going on, will you?" In return she tapped out a slow rythmn on his lapel with her meticulously painted nails.

"Ah - ah - ah OO7. Chief of Staff is waiting."  
"And just whose side are you on?" Bond pulled her in closer. She softly resisted.   
"Is this how you treat old friends?" he whispered.

"I wouldn't say you were 'old' James . . ."

"Then explain to, _young_ Mr. James, what's happened whilst he's been on vacation."

She looked at him with those smiling hazel eyes that told him nothing. Bond reeled her in until she was only an inch away, and then he whispered, "cat got your tongue darling – or is it Pettigrew?"

" Well, my money is on the cat," she said cheerily, untangling herself from the noose that had almost brought his lips to hers.

Bond raised an eyebrow and gathered up his scarf, "I sincerely hope so my dear. If not you deserve a jolly good spanking! And let me say this - later today you will kick yourself for declining the opportunity to kiss me."

"Oh James - to you I'll always be the one who got away. Whatever the line – or the bait." Bond slid gloomily off her desk and turned to walk back down the corridor.

Pettigrew! Good lord! The man had been at M's heels for sometime. Everyone in the Service knew he wanted a crack at his job. Well, here was his chance. What the devil was M doing away for such a damnably long time? Sir Leonard Pettigrew was a gruff old blighter, well known for his discipline and cost cutting. God knows where it might start or stop if he ever got his hands on the Service. Bond calmed himself as he reached out to knock quietly on Tanner's door.

"Come in! Ah, hullo James, take a seat," offered the bright and hospitable looking Tanner. "This won't take long. Dashed busy at present, what with M called off like that."

Bond sat himself down and immediately began patting his pockets, "Quite a surprise to hear the old man's away from home Bill. Any ideas why?" he asked casually, producing his lighter, followed by a wide gunmetal cigarette case. The Lt. - Colonel sat down opposite him, and after a quick appraisal of Bond's face gave a thoughtful smile. "None I'm afraid. Complete surprise to us all. Minister came over with the details late last night."

"I see. All a bit dramatic isn't it? No special instructions, no Red-Book. At least there was no handover traffic in my section." stated Bond, lighting his cigarette. (The red book was the code and signals log always held by the senior operating director. It contained daily pre-sets and the Head Of Group Alert Reaction Tactic or HOGART.) Tanner shook his head. James Bond drew heavily on his Moorland special, and the air whistled through his teeth as he gave the smoke a twist before it reached his throat. Tanner was playing his cards close to his chest. Bond impatiently stood up, walked across the room, and suddenly threw his cigarette into the fire.

"Dammit Bill! This is unusual in the extreme!" Tanner eyed him carefully.

"Yes I'd agree." He replied. "But we are here to deal with the extreme, aren't we?"

He saw OO7 give a faint smile. Tanner liked Bond. He had known the man for years. They were about the same age, but so very different. He also knew that the recent wedge which had divided them on the Kendrick affair hadn't been taken personally. Tanner noted that somehow the man stood in front of him now looked ten years younger than he actually was.

"You look refreshed James. Pleasant break I trust?"

Bond shrugged at the catch-22 and sat back down. He knew Tanner was a wily old fox, who certainly wouldn't be shifted by such amateur dramatics. "Yes, very pleasant – But I'm looking forward to getting my nose back to the grind."

"I see. Well, we don't have much for you, I'm afraid I – You are back on the active roster I should say, but - "

Bond interrupted him with a wave of his hand. "Alright - just give it to me straight. More paper trails? Thought so! Oh well, I'll send Lil along for the minutes." Finishing his statement abruptly he turned to look at the fire again, studying the spiraling flames with rapt attention.

Tanner slowed his reaction. He wondered if M's sudden departure had unsettled OO7? Or was there an edge missing? Tanner thought he knew what the trouble was, but gave no indication of it. "Not exactly paperwork James - want you to take a look at this," he said, tapping the file in front of him to regain Bond's attention. "Tomorrow you will make your way down to Whale Island in Hampshire."

"Really?" said Bond, looking over his shoulder in blank surprise. "I know the place quite well. Admiral Bentick put me through my paces there some years ago. What's the course?" Bond turned in his seat again and stared excitedly across the table. The eyes that met his own were as hard as steel.

"Now, don't take this too badly ol' man. But M thinks you could do with a brush up on your hand to hand combat skills. Thinks some of the section has lost its, err - edge - underused on active duty and all that. It'll be a whole day with a gun-crew PTI, then specialist skills for a further two days. On Sunday you'll be taken over to Horsea Island for some shooting – an interesting weapon I hear. See the Major to draw your arms and brief you."

Bond slowly got up again and walked over to the window. He gazed through the netted curtaining into the traffic filled street below. The view across Regent's park hadn't changed in a decade. Drawing deeply on his second cigarette, he said "All very so-so, if you don't mind my saying."

"Perhaps."

"And this?" Bond said, turning to face Tanner and taking up the buff coloured folder with its blue _Classified_ stamp.

"Have a read and let me know what you think. It's an odd case. Something M's been pondering for some time. Wasn't sure who to leave it with, but with you rather flat at present - thought you might come up with something. We can discuss it when you get back. Oh, by the way this hearing of yours," Bond turned quickly and looked his chief in the eye. "It's been postponed. No date for a reschedule, as yet. Department goings on and all that. But I'll keep you informed. Sorry to be so brusque - happy hunting James! And, I haven't forgotten you owe me ten pounds."

"I thought not," said bond with a laugh. "But I don't have your winnings on me. Stand you lunch in the meantime?"

"Fine. How about next Tuesday? Blades of course?" Bond coughed in shock. Now it was Tanner's turn to laugh. M's club certainly wasn't cheap.

"Till I get back then?" Bond offered warily. Then tucking the folder under his arm he shook hands with the chief of staff and left the room. One point in his favour, thank god he wouldn't have to see Pettigrew. Good old sir Miles, he must have known Tanner would find him the wrong end of something.

The sleek Mercedes pulled up sharply on the gravel drive. Two men got out first, then a scruffy looking escort opened the rear door and grabbed Sir Miles by the elbow. They rushed him into the house, where M went straight upstairs, calling down for the men to fix themselves a drink.

"You've got ten minutes . . . sir!" ordered the driver.

M hated being called sir when off-duty. Upstairs in his private study he took a roll of tape out of his escritoire and pressed a strip to his palm. Peeling it off slowly he carefully put the sample into an envelope, addressed it and left it for Joan. She would post it for him without delay. He needed no time at all to pack as he kept an emergency suitcase always at the ready. With some foresight Q branch had constructed it for him a number of years ago. The compact case contained spare clothing, money in Swiss francs, compass and maps of England and Europe, a half bottle of brandy, and a hard-as-steel ceramic pistol, a type which fired injection darts. Concealed in the lining was a small homing device which could be manually triggered, or would start automatically on receipt of a heavy blow. A tiny Bowman communicator, of bespoke design, was the most invaluable aide. It enabled M to contact LHQ on scrambled satellite link.

M picked up the case and then dragged a scuffed leather hold-all from his dressing cupboard. He set the locks on both, scribbled off another note to Bill Tanner, which he left conspicuously on the top of the banisters, pulled on his heavy overcoat and rejoined the unsociable company downstairs.

"Not bad, you were twelve minutes." The driver sneered. "Moves well for an oldun, don't he Richard?" His scruffy oppo, a tall ashen faced man, managed a sneer. "Always wear that on your summer 'olidays do you?" he joked, gesturing to M's camel haired Ulster. M ignored the insults and went to the door. Few could separate M from his Ulster, come rain or shine.

"Hold on, hold on!" The stocky driver pushed past him, thrusting M back a pace. The door was opened slowly. When they were satisfied the grounds were clear, Richards bundled M into the Daimler and haphazardly tossed his luggage into the boot. The engine kicked into life and Sir Miles relaxed for his journey to the airport, safe in the knowledge that the small homing device was now active. With any luck his few timely preparations would stave off any take-over bids by Leonard Pettigrew.

**Chapter 4**

**Twice Bitten!**

James Bond settled his knitted tie and swept the neat comma of dark hair that fell just above his left eye back into place. May was still angry with him, but a glint in her eye hinted she was glad to see him working again. He gathered his files into a small case and put the Flash card into his inside pocket. The rifle had been secured downstairs and the car from headquarters would contain everything else he needed. There was nothing further to do. It was too early for a drink, yet his mouth felt dry and furred. He'd caught up with traffic and found there were several operations on at present, his being the least 'active'.

The weather took a turn for the worse at eleven, and the spring in Bond's step was less pronounced when he left for Whale Island than when he'd risen early that morning. But at least the contractors had finally left the flat, and Naval security would give the place a good going over during his absence. He looked into the street. The car had arrived. When he reached the carport he told the driver to watch his speed, but that he'd appreciate an early arrival.

"I'll do my best sah." The swarthy chauffer replied, "but it's mighty foul out there at present," and with a loud sniff the man started the engine. The awkward looking brute with yellowed teeth and sunken eyes annoyed Bond. He moved to the rear of the carport with his own luggage in hand and asked , "What's your name driver? Don't think I've seen you before. I mean you're not my usual drive." The weathered mouth opened again, "Yates, sah. Stoker. From the Fearless. Old gal's just been paid off."

As Bond put his cases into the boot he kept tight hold of a rectangular steel box, stowing it carefully beside him on the seat as he got in. He closed the door firmly then said, "Alright Yates."

"Sah!" came the hoarse reply. As the chauffer put the car into drive he hung a bright purple jewel from the indicator stem. Then with an extended wheel-spin launched them into the street, nearly unseating his passenger. Bond, grimaced, what _had_ happened to his usual drive, Smollett? Always cheerful and perfectly reliable. In all his life he'd never seen such a piratical looking fellow as this man Yates.

A fierce rain pelted at the windows while they moved slowly into Bucks Row. Bond was glad he hadn't the chore of facing it. Today his lethargy couldn't be any worse. In the middle of all his troubles they'd sent him on a bloody course with a damned lunatic! Well, there is indeed a life beyond all this, he assured himself. And, perhaps, it was high time he had a long, slow taste of it. Damn any dull days, they'd be few in number! He would see to that.

The weather improved once they were clear of the iron filled arteries of the M25, and the Jaguar XJS bit off the miles in easy fashion. The fresh leather smell of its three-quarter hide filled Bond with a token aristocratic air. He calmly checked his _Seamaster_. By the time they reached Petersfield the long stretch of the A3 had given him a full hour to build an interest in the mysterious SI4 file. Tanner would certainly want his ideas. But before he turned his attention to its particulars, he tried to fathom why Major Boothroyd had given him no word on M. Nobody seemed to know anything about Sir Miles' whereabouts, or the unsolved cases he was holding. Even 'Q' had simply briefed him on the new thermal weapon sight and sent him on his way. Bond's speculations ended on the fact that perhaps M had finally decided to take the Fifth Sea Lord position he'd passed up for so long.

By the time the long green humps of the downs were in sight Bond was ready to forgive Yates. The man had made some pleasant conversation, without being entirely intrusive. Also Bond had talked sternly to himself about the meaning of his own life and his future in the Service. All that rubbish about retirement would go on the back-boiler for now. It must be a throwback to what he'd been feeling after he killed the girl. And Jack Burnes' death had to be put out of mind too. The fact was Burnes had only been called in at the last moment to tidy things up. The notorious Kendrick case was a pitiful example of joint operations, without a containing thread.

M's words had finally proved consoling; "Nobody could have guessed the girl was a double agent OO7. She removed Kendrick weeks before the Service got involved. Even if Kendrick had wanted to go over, there never would have been an exchange. MI5 weren't keen on that, of course. But when OO5 realised what was going on it was too late to stop him from confronting the bitch."

The first inquiry had taken two hellish weeks to come to its conclusion – After which Bond made his accusations – in turn a Court Martial was recommended. He'd always felt that the chief of section K, his director on the mixed op. , was a liability and likely to crucify any man with the blame other than himself. He'd been placed on suspension until further hearings could be convened.

Selling out spies was big business. This girl, or Gudgeon from section K, wouldn't be the last and Bond knew it. He sat quiet for a while. He must put the whole sorry mess behind him. If not, he knew precisely what would happen.

Dark clouds were covering the downs, yet in the pelting rain that followed the tight corners of Butser Hill gave the driver no trouble. The car simply raced on toward Portsmouth Dockyard as if it were carrying a donor heart and lungs. Bond glanced down at the steel box beside him. It contained the Spectral Imaging Scope with ATM, a NATO developed weapon which he'd not yet had chance to try out. Night mission training was a top priority with the Service at present. Not since the war had so many operatives needed darkness as their cover, as well as their disguise. Bond was secretly looking forward to evaluating it. Using heat imaging technology, the scope offered a true 'see in-the-dark' capability. It could be utilised as a hand-held or weapon mounted system. Q had taken pains to explain its workings, and for once Bond had paid attention . . .

". . . a simple-to-operate infrared sensor 'sees' what the human eye cannot. Darkness, rain, fog, dust and smoke are rendered transparent. Now, at Horsea Island you will assess its detection and acquisition technology. We've set up a course of objectives – I'm afraid you won't know what's exactly hitting you until the day – but the trial should prove useful enough. In the past Automated Targeting Systems have been rather bulky affairs – this one sits snugly on top of a rifle. In 'green daylight' mode it will acquire moving man sized objects from up to 200 meters and beyond. Set to active mode – it fires homing ordnance that sends a signal back to the weapon, locking it onto a given profile – for instance - it could be left to give supporting fire while small units out-flanked a position, but I'm sure you will discover all this and more OO7. . . "

"I'm sure I will Q. Now, where's my car and the rest of my ordinance?"

"You'll be traveling light this time out. Transport is all arranged. A driver will take you down to Hampshire. Simply carry your regulation weapon – that is all."

"But that is -"

"Orders, OO7!"

He'd shrugged his response and left Q in a billow of smoke as some trick training shoe exploded, exhaling a toxic looking substance in Q's direction. "A deadly case of the runs I suppose?" Bond quipped.

Passing the Queen Elizabeth Country Park the sun broke through the lead-lined clouds and glinted off the rain speckled windscreen. Tiny rainbows in each and every drop shimmered as the driver pulled down the shades and started the wipers again.

At the touch of a button a small writing desk lowered itself from the seat in front of Bond. The yellow briefing packet which fell towards him had been securi-sealed. He kept an eye on the rear view mirror as he tore the perforated side-strip from the wallet. The driver, it seemed, took little or no notice of his actions. Banded Red letters on the label stated – SI4 / TOP SECRET. It was headed:

R.N. Personnel 

**Missing - Presumed Dead **

The file was composed of signals sent to M over a three year period. Pin pricks of information, carefully filtered from the 'background noise', collated and annotated over time by the hands of numerous agents. The intelligence was a perfect example of how the Service proved its worth; with seemingly infinite patience, utmost care, and a constant attention to detail. After looking over some photographs of the missing men, Bond took note of the Strategic briefing précis. He glanced at the highly classified CIA memos, most being overblown statements that didn't help matters one iota. Only the stuff from the Joint Chiefs of Staff added enough depth to the case to pique his curiosity.

Of the four missing Officers, each had served time on SSBN's (Ship Submersible Ballistic Nuclear) based at Faslane base (HMS Neptune). The miscellaneous reports from several internal departments and an Admiralty investigation had consolidated the facts for him. Initially the details were sketchy. They tracked the training and promotion of two particularly good officers. Both had unblemished Service records. Both were not the troublesome sort. But the final reports were inconclusive.

John Adams, RN retired, was acting as an EW consultant when he mysteriously disappeared, and Andrews 'death, one time Captain of HMS Vanguard – a man Bond vaguely recalled from his days at the Admiralty – was declared a suicide. An untimely demise never properly explained. Too many extraneous factors had muddied the rulings. Neither Adams or Andrews had suffered from severe medical conditions, nor, as far as could be determined, were either of them depressed, distressed or in fear of their lives in or out of the Service.

The mystery of Andrews' death had been examined and re-examined until it literally stank of no clear answers. The ship's surgeon had verified the cause of death, but there had been no autopsy. Andrews had been cremated within three days of returning to port. M's detailed analysis stated that all of the five missing officers had been involved in the bathymetrical survey of freshwater Lochs in Scotland. It was low echelon stuff. There was nothing extraordinary about officers working on BSSL. The Navy's pledge to help the survey was often given in order to test new equipment. These days consistently governable conditions made tests in open water an uncommon practice.

To Bond a more productive line of enquiry was the building of a nuclear waste deep-disposal site in the North Sea. A link which connected two of the missing Captains. Sonar surveys were easy runs in the Service. Perhaps they'd been looking at oil lines, pipes, gas reserves – god knows what! But the whole business would need checking. Bond flicked through numerous signals from around the world. None gave him much scope for theorising.

Intelligence reports on the submersible fleets had been pretty quiet over the years. But the report he'd read on Masterton in Thursday's Times had interested him. He recognised all too well the final addendum in M's handwriting on the last page. '_What really happened to Ian 'Stock' Masterton no one claims to know, but the man was working for SIS. A useful sleeper - recruited in 91._' To Bond, Masterton's death screamed out for an external investigation.

As for the rest - perhaps the whole darn case was a non-starter. Bond wondered to what extent his remit would be. How much time would they give him? There were so many loose ends to the job. It could take weeks to force a lead. And how important was it? Surely just a filler to keep him busy while nothing else was on. With no concrete evidence, he finally decided to sleep on it. But he would request the autopsy report on the body of Lieutenant Masterton as soon as the weekend was over.

Caught up in the slow moving harbour traffic, he idly speculated that something seemed amiss in the Vanguard Fleet, but whatever it was, for now it would have to keep.

While watching the grey Portsmouth cloudscape split into blue sky, he failed to notice his driver press the redial button on his mobile phone. It was the only signal the man been authorised to give. Flying down the final stretch of the M275 Yates' cracked lips broke into a twisted grin.

Reaching the entrance to H.M.S. Excellent they drove slowly over the Stamshaw Bridge to Island security. Bond's pass was returned to him and the friendly Yeoman explained where building R41 was. After a cold shower and change Bond walked down to the dock and looked into the distance. He could easily make out the yardarms and bowsprit of H.M.S. Victory. To the East side of the harbour, over pearl gray waters, lay the squat flint tower of Portchester Castle. Stood once again upon the slips of Whale Island, James Bond felt at home.

He walked breezily down past St. Barbara's church until he turned into the well equipped Gymnasium. Bond noted all the usual equipment stowed neatly across the rear of the hall. Behind the rings and pommel horse lay dozens of netted medicine balls. A shelf of free weights – in graded order – stood to attention along a side wall. Walking among the ropes and climbing frames he stopped to sit astride a vaulting horse. The smell of floor polish and a mild odour of disinfectant, without which all Naval establishments appear ill-disciplined, pervaded the place. He had fond memories of his try-outs for the field-gun crew here. At the first attempt he'd nearly lost a finger disengaging the tackle, and therefore failed to get in, but the second gruelling trial rewarded him with a place in the team.

James Bond began to patrol the hall, smartening himself to the task. Two lifeguards were busy setting out a thirty-foot square Judo mat. The interlocking jigsaw sections would form a combat arena. Walking round the perimeter Bond pulled at the joins, kicked the edges and tested its firmness. It passed inspection. When complete he slipped off his canvas shoes and ceremonially bowed himself on.

Dressed in a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms and white naval vest, he started to limber up. While stretching out, the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly pricked up. A feeling of being watched flooded through him. He stopped exercising and looked up at the roof. A small seating gallery had been hoisted into the 'A'and secured to one side. There! A moving silhouette disappeared from his line of sight, darting to the right , just as he moved to get a better view. Some voices in the corridor suddenly distracted him, and when he turned back the strange figure had vanished. Bond gazed up into the skylight for a time, but could see nothing more out of the ordinary. Moments later a man came in through the main door. As it swung too Bond noted the powerful frame homing in on him. It belonged to a stocky PTI who was just under his own height, wore a trim moustache and looked extremely fit. His broad shoulders carried a bullish swagger. As the instructor reached the edge of the mat he stopped and curtly nodded to Bond, then without further adieu, started to jog the perimeter of the hall. Bond filed in quickly behind him and they began a fifteen-minute warm-up.

By the time they'd finished the run and completed countless push-ups and sit-ups Bond's stomach muscles were burning and the broad grin on the PTI's face had him worried. The man hadn't even broken into a sweat. They stretched out the stiffness in their backs and legs, during which time Bond kept a close eye on his opponent. Suddenly the PTI jumped up and shouted, "Morning Mr. Bond. I'm Ian Henderson. I'll be taking yer for fighting practice this morning." The Scotch accent echoed in the vast space of the hall. "Don't be afraid to give me yer best shots. That's what I'm here fer, to show you that at the moment ya best will nay be good enough! Is that understood - Commander?"

Bond was sick of this kind of bravado, as a matter of fact he'd seen enough swagger to last him a lifetime, but something about this man rang different. The chap was ice cool and looked on top of his game. Maybe he was the better man? Alright, he'd play it careful and try not to get mangled.

"Morning Henderson! I'm ready if you are?" he rejoined. "What shall we start with, Judo?"

The broad chest heaved under the white vest, and Bond fully expected its naval crest to burst off. "A little 'anything goes' for starters?" rasped the steel voice. The PTI offered an open palm toward the centre of the mat. "Shall we?"  
The offer was not without a hint of menace and Bond immediately felt he was being invited to a duel. In fact there was little doubt the square jawed, crew-cut instructor was laying down the gauntlet.   
"No Whitehall favours here, I'm afraid sir," the man said sharply. His accompanying smile was purely perfunctory. This chap is really pushing his luck thought Bond, as he moved cautiously about the mat, sizing up his opponent, trying to fathom his strategy. But as far as he could tell there wasn't a single chink in the PTI's armour.

Henderson smiled and stepped quickly in towards Bond. His heavily tattooed arms held loosely in a guard. Bond blended with the motion, moving an equal distance away at the same pace.

"C'mon sir! Not frightened are yer? City life softened you up?"

The goading continued, Bond ignored it. The PTI circled him anti clockwise again, and then switched direction. With unnerving confidence the instructor circled his hands and threw several good feints in the air. There was nothing showy about the moves. This man was as sharp as he looked. Bond felt the tension building. Maybe M was right, perhaps OO7 had gone soft. The PTI was stalking him like a hunter - a hunter who kills with his bare hands.

In a single movement Bond leapt to the man's right, flashed out an elbow and caught him in the gut. He followed the advantage with a stiff uppercut and a solid left cross. Hearing the PTI's jaw crack loudly, and watching him stagger back, Bond attempted a powerful kick to the midriff to put the man down. The blow was parried with consummate ease. It was a mistake that left Bond open to a fierce counter attack. He grimaced as the hardened fists pounded into his body. Another rocket came his way, and another - head, body, head! Each punch a telling score. Bond ducked, trying to withdraw from the lightening fast jabs that flew towards his face. But he was floundering, his defence falling behind the terrific speed of his assailant. 'Careful', he said to himself, as he threw up a hand to block yet another jaw breaker, but he was caught out by the deep faint. This time there was no avoiding the crippling blow that dropped beneath his guard and sunk into his left kidney. It spun him round. He careered across the mat and Henderson moved in with a vicious kick to his solar plexus. In a like for like exchange he had come off badly. He dropped to the floor. Writhing in agony, gritting his teeth to endure the pain, he watched the PTI step away from him with a sly smirk on his face.

"I guess that'll be the first knockdown to me then, Commander?"

Bond sat up slowly, leaned forward, and desperately tried to catch his breath. Looking up at Henderson he saw the deep set eyes of the man shining like red-hot coals.

"I thought this was a lesson, not a beating." he said sternly. The PTI grimaced. "Och, I'm only just getting started - sir."

Bond struggled to his feet. Perhaps it wouldn't be a beating after all, perhaps it would be a murder – his! "Alright. This lamb is ready for more." Bond said good humouredly. Perhaps he was taking it all too seriously. After three weeks off he was sluggish, no real bite for it. Maybe he needed a good hard push to wake him up. He got to his feet and shrugged off the remaining pain.

The PTI lunged forward again, but Bond evaded, slamming a knee into his midriff as he passed. It just bent the stronger man forward. Christ! the man's stomach was tough as iron! But the break was enough for him to get purchase on a headlock. Bond stepped across his opponent and swept his legs away in a classic 'Tai Taoshi', trailing him to the floor, and keeping a tight hold on his neck. A quick change and Bond was working his left arm around until he could apply a choke. Twisting his left forearm into position, he covered the man's windpipe and wracked on the pressure. The PTI wrestled with him across the mat and onto the wooden floor, rolling over and over, moving through various counters. But still Bond kept the thick neck in a vice like grip. The man started to gag. Suddenly a flash of pain rose in Bond's back. He found himself gasping for breath, his ribs screaming at him. He let go with one hand and probed the area. But with his choke hold relaxed the PTI rolled out and jumped to his feet. The sly smirk was back, the man loomed over him. Bond looked down at his hand and saw fresh blood dripping from his fingers. It was coming from a three inch cut which had skidded across his ribs.

"What the devil's this?" he riled. The PTI grinned from ear to ear. "This is war commander. But it's just you and me, naybody else."

Bond backed away as Henderson brought the concealed double-edged steel dirk into play. The blade shone dully in the grim light. This wasn't part of the deal - or was it? He realised the gut feeling he'd had when he first saw Henderson. It must have been him on the gantry looking down. He'd felt that same warning a hundred times before, but here, and under present circumstances he'd ignored it. His mind raced. Was the man a foreign agent? How did he get onto the base? Who else knew about his training? Bond sprinted past the man and into the racks at the back of gymn. As he set off the PTI moved quickly to the main door and locked it. Then he turned in pursuit, carrying his knife in a deadly overhand grip.

War is war! thought Bond, as he reached for the racks and concealed a small bar-weight in his palm. When the man leapt at him from six feet away, he saw the blade point homing in on his chest. Just as Henderson came over the vaulting box, Bond slammed his weighted fist into the man's groin. A dull crunch was followed by a shrill scream, but the instructor made an enormous effort to stand tall. Bond snatched up a weight lifting belt from its hook and slashed him across the face with it. Henderson staggered back and roared with anger. He kicked away the supports of the vaulting box like matchwood and readied another attack. In turn Bond leapt over the splintered remains and pulled a whole rack of weights down on top of him. They bounced easily off Henderson's toughened chest and arms. A stinging knife slash whipped across the back of Bond's legs as he ran to open ground.

Henderson gathered himself. "Now let's see what you've really got Mr. Bond!" he shouted, viciously slicing the air. As the blade slashed again and again across Bond's eyes, Bond swung the weight belt round and down again. This time the large brass buckle tore the PTI's cheek open. Henderson staggered as spurts of blood splashed down his white vest. Glancing down at the mess he lost what temper had remained and sprang immediately into a forward roll stopping right at Bond's feet, sweeping his legs from under him and stabbing down at Bond's stomach. Bond caught the hand and a trial of strength began. Slowly Henderson gained the upper hand and switched for a strangle. The iron fingers pushing into Bond's neck, going deep into the soft nerves. Bond laced his hands and tried to break free. Keeping his eyes on the knife after three attempts the pressure point strike was broken. He kicked out hard and the PTI folded in two. Both men struggled for breath, their energies fading fast. A heavy fatigue had set in and the fight fell to an ugly slogging match. Bond spat a mouthful of blood onto the polished oak floor. "This isn't proving anything Henderson. Think about it man!"   
Having taken several hard body punches Henderson suddenly tore away his blood soaked vest and flung it at Bond. "Never stop Mr. Bond. Get your man!" Dodging out of the way Bond realised the PTI was now quite berserk with rage, but in a deft move managed to catch him with a hard punch to the temple. He then put as many blows as he could into Henderson's body. The heavy combinations, left the PTI's lips cut and his right eye bleeding profusely. With his man finally swaying on his feet, Bond stepped away and grabbed another moment to breathe. At last he'd rocked the mountain! As he started to say something the PTI gave an unholy shriek and made a last desperate lunge at Bond's throat with the dagger. Bond slipped under the extended arm, pivoted and whipped it in a tight circle over his shoulder. The man sailed through the air and slammed into the folded climbing frame against the wall. Walking to the prostrate form, Bond picked up the dazed man and hit him hard on the jaw. It was a punishing right hander. As the light went out of Henderson's eyes the two-man war was concluded, and, for Bond, not a moment too soon.

Only then was he aware of the banging at the locked door. As he looked up its frame suddenly splintered and folded inwards. A uniformed man stepped into the doorway. Through bloodshot eyes Bond tried to stay focused. He stood his ground as a slow hand clap began beside him. Another PTI had entered the room from the opposite end.

"Well done Commander!" Came the retort. "Dangerous fellow, isn't he?" The clapping stopped. Bond looked over his shoulder, his adrenaline still high, his alertness sharp. The two men were converging on him.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, "Look, Henderson broke the rules. Got what he deserved." Bond wondered if he could he manage another battle. He was already breathless and badly cut; but he was primed to continue if need be . . .

As if sensing Bond's intention the nearest PTI stopped still. Bond straightened himself up. Were they letting him go? "Look I've had enough for today, so if you don't mind I'll take a shower." With that he walked boldly towards the exit. If he had to he would sprint to security, they couldn't all be in on this mess. At the main door CPO Vince Wingfield blew a chrome whistle. Henderson was struggling to his feet. At the signal two uniformed Provost's entered the gymn.

"Take PO Henderson out will you?" Wingfield ordered. Bond slowed his advance as

the Chief Petty Officer was obeyed swiftly. The bruised and battered Henderson was put under arrest and led from the gymn. The chief instructor smiled broadly, "It's alright. I don't know where they get their ideas Commander. But he's had that beating coming to him for some time. Nearly killed a young fellow here a while back. He's on secondment, from Strathclyde, I believe. Just a month. Oh, staff come and go – but we don't need that sort here, do we?" Bond knew an apology when he heard one. He swallowed his anger.

"Scotland you say? Good job we weren't fighting for money then, isn't it?"

The Petty Officer smiled and turned to leave him. Bond closed his eyes and screamed silently for a double whiskey and a smoke. It had been one hell of a first day back after three weeks suspension.

Chapter 5 Green Daylight 

On Sunday afternoon at four thirty James Bond was sat in the small NAAFI overlooking Portsmouth harbour. A large cup of black coffee was steaming in front of him and his fifth cigarette of the day was burning alone in a foil ashtray. He swept the comma of hair, slightly tinged with grey, from his forehead. The room was stuffy and he ached all over. His knuckles still bruised and swollen. The wound in his side had been expertly bound and taped so at least he'd been able to finish the course. CPO Wingfield hadn't the heart to put him through more than a basic workout on the final day, not after his duel with Henderson. Bond had attended the brief interrogation of his attacker, but the man had stuck to his guns, said he'd given Bond safety instructions and limited the event to knock downs.

"The knife was purely a wake-up call. The wound an accident!" The steel voice had dwindled to a rasp. Bond had walked out in disgust. He would file his own report and make sure Henderson was court-martialled. Before leaving he told security to let his car and driver go. He would make his own way over to Horsea Island. It was not conclusive that the new driver had had anything to do with the attempt on his life, but until he could make enquiries about this odd replacement he thought it best to work alone. Before Monday he would settle himself into a small Hotel, stiffen his resolve with plenty of ice cold vodka, and in the afternoon catch a Taxi to the night exercise.

Having checked into a small but relatively comfortable Hotel, James Bond slept for two hours, showered twice, then left his room at exactly midnight. As he climbed into the waiting taxi a cold breeze rushed through the open windows. He breathed deeply watching the trails of red tail lights flickering on and off as they sped out of the city. It was many years since Bond had been on Horsea Island, now he was returning to test the SITD3. He stepped into the guard room and was issued with a swipe key and given an escort. The Naval Defence Diving Centre was little changed. The facility still operated around a large seven metre deep lagoon. Landrovers, boats an ambulance and other bits of purposely sunken debris lay on its bottom. But walking along the lee shore in darkeness Bond found places pungent with the past, nooks and crannies where his mind ricocheted into the fireworks of distant wars. Victorian Marines had learned to swim off these beaches. Landing craft had once been equipped here for D-Day. Later, as Bond unpacked the infra-red scope, he took a moment to think. Time flowed thickly across these sands, molten and transparent; the tumblers of its mysterious locks rumbling all around him.

He looked at his watch. It was 2am. Lying prone and looking down the scope, he picked out various hollows and concrete boathouses that obscured the tip of the island. Near the old bunkers in Zone 1 it was pitch black. Using the naked eye he could only just make out the giant silhouette of the Scuba Centre, nothing more. He clicked on the sight. It was an optronic device converting invisible infra-red beams, but it's laser guided targeting and acquisition technology was top secret. He watched the figures closing in on him through a 3D display grid, in what was called 'green daylight'. The frogmen approaching his position were wearing night vision goggles. He'd spotted the unit of SBS commandos come out of the murky Solent in black dinghy's. They'd swum the length of the 1,000m lake to pick up explosive charges, and must, by way of the exercise extraction point, break through his defended cordon. He would intercept the landing party before they planted their timers and bugged out. Bond had been briefed alongside two other snipers issued with regular weaponry. His ammunition was similar to the luminous paint darts they fired. A glow spot would eliminate any soldier he hit.

Taking careful aim he swept from left to right. Using the 3D matrix to give him depth elevation and range readings. The first figure was being mapped in space, timed over a short distance and the weapon then targeted itself automatically. Bond gently squeezed the button trigger. Prior to this first shot, he'd taken a small amount of sighting shots. A bunker on the far side had received three hits one on top of the other. A whispering shock and the dart hit the soldier square in the chest. The man stopped and sat down. One down. Who's next? smiled

Bond . . .

Perhaps he was over pleased with himself, perhaps he was too concentrated on his observations, but the rough hands carrying the wire garrotte flicked past his peripheral vision before he'd had chance to move. The wire was nearly half way to severing his wind-pipe as he pulled the heavy figure over his head in a lightning fast throw. But he hadn't shaken off the garrotte. He could still feel the callused hands tightening it further. His throat was already bleeding, only a few seconds more and it would be all over for him. Bond slipped a knife from his right calf pocket and buried it in the man's side. He scrabbled back and stabbed again, this time pushing the blade upwards, inwards and across. The powerful strangling eased, the hands dropped from his throat and the heavy form went limp. When he stood up to check his neck two commandos were almost on him. Bond struck both hands up in the air.

"It's alright – alright! I don't think he's one of yours."

Untangling the wire from himself he angrily threw the garrotte onto the sand. An SBS sergeant arrived. Fortunately the man realised what had happened.

"You alright commander? That was a lucky escape. Take off his Balaclava somebody!" A corporal bent down and pulled the black woollen mask from the dead man's face.

"Good lord, it's my driver!" exclaimed Bond. "Yates, he called himself!"

The sergeant stepped away. He fired a red flare to signal the end of the exercise. "That's put paid to tonight's little venture I'm afraid. Better finish up here and report back to HQ. Corp' Cummings, take that thing to the Morgue!"

Bond looked long and hard at the dead man as they stretchered him away. Why the devil had he tried to kill him? He would report this to Tanner tonight, or, god help him – Pettigrew! Two attempts on his life in three days. What the heck was on the burner this time?

After seeing the same MO again Bond was asked if he carried a death wish, and by the end of the weekend would they be needing a box to send him home in? He smirked his reply. Black humour ran in every MO's veins. Waiting for the pretty nurse to finish up his dressings, he suddenly turned a little pale. It was only then that it really dawned on him how close he'd come to losing his life. Another second and the wire would have severed his jugular. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him. Having disposed of the Blofelds and Irma Bunts of this world, he'd almost been sent into the next world by his own chauffer! Oh well, if he'd breathed his last, he was sure the newspapers would have been given a different story. Bond looked into a small mirror on the dressing tray. The throat bandage could hardly be seen under his shirt. He checked his reflection once more, straightened his tie and then gave the nurse a full smile. "Thanks. I'm sorry I can't stay and . . ."

"You take it easy for a day or two. That's a very nasty wound. And don't forget to change the dressing tomorrow. Goodbye Commander Bond" The sparkling green eyes smiled at him as an orderly showed him out to the waiting staff car. After more apologies Bond was rushed over to his Hotel. The bemused nurse stared after his car until it vanished into the hot queues on the motorway.

During the short drive Bond planned his next move. The whole escapade was sinking in now. Ironically it was the first case of its kind he'd heard of – an agent targeted during training - apart from his own brain-washing and the failed attempt on M's life . . . (which had never been officially recorded.) Well, he would be on full alert from now. He'd explain to Tanner from outside the Hotel then, come what may, would get off up to Scotland. He had more than a sneaking suspicion that the trouble he was in was being directed from Firth of Clyde. In a fit of pique he wished M was near. Damn! The man's advice was invaluable at times like this. A clear point of view, an objective assessment. Bond felt too worked up to be entirely objective. He was dying for a large brandy and a good night's sleep .

Walking steadily into the hotel bar he ordered a double Courvoisier. The buxom barmaid was the same girl who'd served him his hearty breakfast that morning. The extra rations of bacon and eggs had come with a bright smile and cute remarks.

"With the usual sir?" she asked. Bond nodded to her.

"Alright. Won't keep you a minute," She placed a frothing pint of beer on the bar whilst shooting him her best smile. Bond paid, took up his brandy, and after coolly looking her in the eye went and sat down. Five minutes later she came by. "Everything alright? You look as if you've had a nasty shock. Another stiff Brandy'll do the trick – Or praps you'd like summin else?"

Bond smiled, "Bring me the bottle over, and we'll talk." When she returned Bond caught her wrist gently as she put the brandy down in front of him. He nodded to the menu. She giggled.

"Something to eat is it?" Bond took in her curves with a lascivious look. " I'll have the steak and ale pie, with plenty of buttered potatoes and green beans."

She pouted at him, "Alright. But some cheerful company's what you really need!" The pert soft lips laughed at their own gambit and she scuttled off back behind the bar, where a hefty looking fellow appeared irritated by her interest in Bond.

"Paula, you can't be goin' and rescuin' every down-beat waif an' stray ya know!"

"Oh Jack! for gawd's sake let me alone. I'm fed up with your so-called lookin' out for me. He's not your usual punter. There's summin more to him than meets the eye - mark my words - now put his order through - ta!" She walked quickly to other end of the heavily stocked bar and set a new bottle of Courvoisier into an optic, eyeing Bond with a beaming smile. As she approached him with his dinner Bond drained his glass to the dregs.  
"This is the best we can do, I'm afraid. I hope the gravy is still hot. Oh, I can see you're a man who enjoys life's little luxuries . . . Now, shall I put it on the tab?" Bond smiled, "The best of life's luxuries can't be put on a tab. Now what's your name?"

Paula giggled. She gave a brief account of herself then watched him from the bar as he ate heartily. But, perhaps in some symbolic gesture, Bond later refused the rather tempting desert menu. However, he liked the girl's earthiness. Her no airs and graces company were a refreshing change. Nice to talk with someone who wasn't connected with his line of work. After dinner he went to reception and enquired for messages, but there were none, and apparently the room hadn't been cleaned that day. The duty porter told him that he'd had no visitors whatsoever, except an odd man who'd enquired about his suite, saying that it was usually his when in town on business. 'The view, you see, is so much better than the one my present room overlooks." Bond thanked Dominick for the information, slipped five pounds into his hand and went outside.

Ten minutes later, after the call to London, he took the lift to his floor. As the doors opened he went quickly along to room 401. Taking out his key, he knocked first and said' Porter service." While waiting for any response he carefully fitted the silencer to his Walther PPK. There was no reply so he opened the door slowly. Such precautions might be in vain, but in the light of the last two days he had a right to be on edge.

He pushed the door back as far as it would go, checked the entry hall and darted in. Closing the door behind him he dropped low to the floor. It looked clear. He relaxed and searched the bedroom casually. There was nothing, no devices, no explosives. But he took aim again at the closed bathroom door – sure that he'd left it open. Kicked hard the door swung violently back on its hinges and crashed into the wall. The room was empty. Bond flicked up the safety and placed the gun gently on a side table. He removed his coat and sat down in an armchair facing the door. As he undid his cufflinks he saw himself reflected in a painted Coca-Cola mirror on the opposite wall. He looked at low ebb. He should have known that PTI meant business. Should have raised the alarm as soon as the man had cut up rough with him. Now it was time to stop the rot, before he got himself killed. He opened the bottle of Brandy he'd brought up from the bar and poured himself a long drink, swallowed the first straight down then poured himself another. He went back into the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water. Within the hour London would contact him. He would sit patiently until that time.

The room itself was dreary. The wardrobe had no doors and the bed was fitted with coarse sheets and a lumpy mattress. He turned a switch at the bed-head and a ceiling fan began to turn. The steady whirr aided his concentration. Taking slow sips of brandy he toyed with the idea of ordering some ice. Another sip, and the slight throbbing in his neck diminished. As the minutes ticked by he carefully slotted the weekend's events into place. At times drawing the brandy slowly through his teeth, savouring its warmth. The smooth action added to his reflective state of mind. He pictured the missing faces again. His gut instinct told him that a team had been assembled to supply something to somebody, somewhere. If it was all occurring at Faslane base, then the Subs were key. He needed a list of all the exercises Vanguard Fleet had concluded during the past three years, plus refits. In fact, all movements bar none.

When the missing Captains had stumbled across the ruse, or wanted out – or even in - they'd disappeared. Bond grit his teeth together, finished the third brandy and pushed the glass aside. He replaced the top on the bottle. The case ticked over in his brain. Dragging a cushion from the bed he pressed it hard into the back of the chair and put his feet up on the bedframe.

There had to be a way through whatever defence these men had contrived. They were a motley crew alright. Hardened killers, who wouldn't hesitate to murder in order to keep their secrets. But perhaps this bathymetric survey angle of M's could provide him with a suitable cover. He would certainly need one if he was going to spy on the base. He decided to study the geology of the North Sea first thing tomorrow. An hour passed, and as he planned he got the feeling that this might have to be best cover story he'd ever concocted. It would require a good deal of careful thought. His life would depend upon it. The only worry at the back of his mind, and which seemed out of his hands, was where the devil _is_ M?

The cold silence broke when the bedside telephone rang. Bond picked up the jangling box and laid it on his lap. He waited for the fourth ring then lifted the handset. There was a loud click on the line. "Hello? . . . Mr Bond?"

"Speaking."

"Your shipment will arrive in the morning. It has been tested as you specified. And we have received the Clavet you sent. Much obliged. Take care now." The line went dead. Bond stretched out on the bed and waited. There would be a further call for the rest of message and he would decode it manually.

He sat quite still as the soft knocking at his door woke him fully. He reached for the Walther and went to the door. Tucking the gun into his trouser waistband he undid the catch and looped the safety chain across. "Who is it?" he whispered.  
"A friend, for a friend in need." He recognised the softened reply and smiled widely. The curves of Paula Legg sauntered into the room. A short pink frilled dressing gown and a faint odour of Chanel were all she was wearing. In her left hand she carried a bottle of Verve Cliquot and two champagne glasses. Bond laughed. "I should have known." He ushered her toward the bed. She resisted and went to the drinks cabinet. Bond discretely tucked the blued steel Walther neatly under his pillow whilst she was opening the wine. Before the glasses were ready he tucked the code book into his clothes on the chair.  
She came toward him with the drink. Nestling her lips against his neck they entwined their hands for a toast. "To tonight." She offered. "To every night." Said Bond. She put the empty glasses onto the bedside table, then rolled gracefully onto the bed and stretched out her long legs. Bond lay down beside her. She loosened his shirt, but made no mention of the bandages wrapping his body. Smiling all the while, she kissed his bandaged wounds tenderly. This girl knows how to handle a serviceman, mused Bond, as his hands wandered over her silken skin. She had a beauty spot on her hip and Bond bent to kiss it twice. He then held her strongly. Gripping her waist he kissed her hard on the mouth and she squirmed a little underneath him until all the resistance suddenly went out of her. Her breathing deepened as he lowered his mouth to her breasts and she began to maon softly with contentment . . .

When James Bond awoke he was alone again, his neck still sore and his limbs aching. He did his best to avoid getting the dressings wet as he showered. After removing the neck bandage he folded it double, then replaced it as a slimmer dressing. His clean shirt gave nothing away of the injury. He had memorised the decoded message, burned the paper in a glass and had flushed the ashes down the toilet. He'd arranged with Paula to be served an early breakfast. London were settling his affairs. Tanner had at least been most helpful. When he got downstairs the lounge was empty but for one early riser. Bond paid him scant attention when drawing his coffee from the large Chemex brewer at the servery. Over his morning paper, seated comfortably in the lounge, he awaited his shipment from HQ.

When the package arrived, Bond signed for it and took it up to his room. Along with it came an urgent communication. M seemed to be in some sort of trouble. There was no detail available yet, and, incredibly, whatever info there was had been suppressed by the FO. At the section heads meeting Pettigrew had claimed to draw a blank whenever Tanner made 'enquiries' about a mysterious memo from M.

Bond was to get himself over to Brize Norton ASAP, where he would take up his old Service rank. After a days rest, and a thorough medical, he would be taken by Sea-King to the west coast of Scotland. From there it was simply a short hop to Faslane by car. Tanner had agreed iwith his plans, but urged caution. "You've already been through the wars on this job, James. So I'm requesting someone to travel alongside. A man who really knows the ropes. At least three fifths of your cover will be legitimate." The pose as a Bathymetric Survey expert would require care and attention but Bond was forced to agree that a deputy could cover any troubles . Besides, it would ensure he could gather intelligence while overseeing a dive on the hydrographic survey. A Vanguard sub would be returning from a routine exercise this week, and fully crewed she would leave on the next tide. It was all he had to go on for now. Tanner was sending the expert along to meet and brief him at Brize. After two days of intensive training – going over and over the basics of Sonar projects and deep sea excavation, they would travel to Faslane.

Breaking down the package he removed a tiny Bowman communicator – set to scramble, With it he would talk directly with Tanner in one hour. He _cleaned _hisroom minutely that morning, being especially fastidious with his personal rubbish. Then showered, close shaved and dressed immaculately in a dark blue suit, Bond went back down to the bar and asked Paula Legg to ring for a Taxi.

"Ten minutes alright love?" she enquired, with a smile. Bond nodded. The tall girl replaced the phone and walked slowly toward him. His cold blue eyes broke into a reverie of missed pleasures and the sort of sour regrets that a man has when he's torn from the arms of a woman he wants. She kissed him gently on the cheek. "You look after yourself now, hmmm." Bond placed his hands on her hips. The faded jeans and striped sweater clung to her curves. "I will Paula," he whispered.

As the car pulled away Bond smiled back at the rather sweet little thing waving to him from the sunlit window. The lone figure who'd been reading since breakfast first carefully folded then put down his newspaper. Massimo interlaced his fingers and cracked his knuckles. With a disparaging look at a painting of Admiral Nelson dying aboard HMS Victory, he sauntered into the lounge bar. Paula Legg was just the girl he required.

**Chapter 6**

**A Glittering Cargo**

_HMS Vanguard - 2000 _

_North Sea – Core H. trials_

"Spearfish away sir."

The confirmation of the firing order let Captain Andrews know that one of the world's most advanced homing torpedoes was heading for its target.  
"Port thirty-five helm, hold your course."

"Thirty-five of Port wheel on, sir"

The Captain's sharp eyes glanced at the optronic display. Seconds later the two ton piece of ordinance slammed into the target hulk, breaking its back on impact, sending several hundred tons of water and metal booming into a flat grey sky.  
"Bring her to point. Blind side!" The hydroplanes maintained their elevation as Andrews brought the nuclear submarine to bear on his towed, secondary target. As the enemy left the Go-Deep perimeter his evaluations at periscope depth paid off. With equal success, another thousand tons of rusted shipping began its ill-fated journey to the bottom of the North Sea. The fire control company gave a small cheer. The 'Pop up - Pop down', manoeuvre was a success, and Andrews rattled out the customary, "Well done everyone. Now let's go home!"

HMS Vanguard had given her name to the class of SSBN's (Ship Submersible Ballistic Nuclear) that provide the United Kingdom's strategic and sub-strategic nuclear deterrent. Launched in 91, she now carried 16 D5 SLBM Trident missiles. Today's exercise had brought a major change in her trial ops. Since her refit the 135 'Port' company members had been providing sonar reports of a deep sea trench being dug at Risen Bank. In order to bury international nuclear waste safely, the Navy was keeping an eye on its construction. The op had lasted two months. Afterwards the titan-sized Vanguard had been outfitted with Core H. She wouldn't need refueling for the rest of her sea-going life. Below the waves she was a forbidding presence. A boat with immense firepower and the ability to put up a strong conventional attack. Her trials were coming to an end. This target practice was the climax of two months of intensive exercises.

As the broken hulks hit the seabed, Commander Dexter Seaton kept them on visual surveillance. When the second wreck finally settled he noted the shockwaves blasting the banks had uncovered a grey mass.

"Bring up starboard video." He moved to an observation post. The camera flickered into life. "And on one – alright - switch to bow camera when she comes around." Clouds of silt were still mushrooming above the odd shape. Captain Andrews came up, nodded to Dex and drew in closer to the screen. "What have we got, number one?"

"Not exactly sure sir. Out of those banks ahead - looks like a wreck of some sort. We are only two miles from the trench, about three from Magnus pipeline. Think we should take a closer look?" The Captain pursed his lips and stared into the monitor carefully. "Yes I do," he said at last. "Take us in. Twenty meters clearance." The helmsman took them in, but it was still too early to see what the sullen looking shape actually was. Vanguard's black shadow moved silently through the crushing depths, then pitching slightly she came to a full stop.

An ultrasound monitor wined as it showed up the sleek dark shape on the seabed. A single ping registered depth and form. Muddy turbulence caused by the sinking hulks was finally clearing, convincing Dex to share his thoughts; "I'd say it was definitely a wreck sir. Lying on her port side, possibly broken amidships." Vanguard's bow light came on, its thin beam lancing into the darkness. Andrews stood calmly at the com.  
"Wreck directly beneath us! Hold trim! Come around 15 degrees. Let's take a good look at her."  
"Aye, aye sir." Emerging from the Vanguard's shadow a bulbous form crystallized into view. The search beam cut across its rusted metal plates.  
"Alright, take us in closer helm."  
"Aye, sir."

Captain Andrews left the monitor and cleared his throat. He was growing tired of breathing scrubbed air. After two months he was looking forward to getting ashore. Dex stared avidly at the vague outlines of the sunken ship. The shockwave had cleared away deep silts covering the vessel. She lay to port with her iron guts spilled across the seabed.  
"Her keel is split and she is indeed holed amidships, sir." Dex, confirmed unnecessarily, clearly overexcited by the find. Andrews came up and studied the monitor again. Jagged spikes struck upwards into the gloom, interrupting the still sensuous curves of the plated hull.  
"What do you make of those number one?"  
"Not sure, an encrustation of some sort?"

The wreck began shifting, almost imperceptibly, down a steep incline. "All stop!" Andrews ordered, and flicked on the com. "All hands. We are investigating a wreck uncovered by our work this morning. Clear the bomb shop. CPO Leach to control!"

The Vanguard swiftly changed her position . Thirty metres below her the wreck's twisted ruin lay in stark contrast to the deadly presence of the nuclear submarine.

As varicolored lights and dials glowed and winked in the control room, providing real-time data, the planes-man shifted his headphones back and turned from his station. "What sort of vessel is she sir? The Captain spun round on his heel, "Well it's not a Naval craft, Yates. It's a steamer. Requisitioned during the war, no doubt. The stacks are detached, see the red lines on those cylinder shaped objects. Bigger than the usual liner I'd say, for these waters. But I wasn't around when they were. Alright? – Now, ahead Slow!"  
"Ahead slow, sir" came the refrain.  
While they traversed the wreck, Dex got his first view of the superstructure. "We are coming astern now sir - good alignment - forty metres and closing."

Dex could see that the 3000 ton wreck was beginning to give up her secrets . . .

"See there, part of her name?" he cried. "RMS . . . I can't quite make it out. Something –  
ORIC. Must have gone down in the war! Hell of a mess. The holes look like gunnery damage. Perhaps she was carrying troops ? I -"

At that point Cmdr. Dex Seaton's mouth dropped wide open. He gasped as they came across the debris field. In the diffused light were hundreds of tiny blocks shining on the sea floor. It was a tremendous sight. A vast glittering mass, as if someone had tipped an enormous box of jewels onto the seabed. Captain Andrews gave a low whistle. The cargo of RMS - ORIC glowed eerily among the remains of her broken hull. Dexter smiled widely. There were literally thousands of luminous objects. A school of Mackerel suddenly darted out, disturbed by Vanguard's propulsor. Emerging from the shelter of the wreck their flashing silver swarmed over the sparkling cargo.

Dexter grew more excited, "What the hell are all those stones?" Sub. Lt. Masterton cricked his neck and moved from his plotting table. He approached the first officer and stood quietly behind him. When he saw Seaton's beaming face he couldn't help laughing, "Having fun, Dex ol' chum?" he whispered. "The old goil looks a beauty don't she?"  
"What do you make of these glowing blocks, Stock?"  
"No idea. They're not metallic, if that's what you're thinking, or hoping. Would have shown up on the scan. Perhaps her coal tenders burst?"

Dex was immediately disheartened, "Hmm maybe," he mumbled. It did seem the relics were too oddly shaped to be gold bars or silver ingot. In fact they might well be RMS – ORIC's coal. Masterton looked over Seaton's shoulder. The spill was fan shaped and hundreds of broken crates seemed to be over, or on top of the debris.

Seaton called out to the Captain. "We need another shot at it sir, perhaps a lateral crossing?"

Andrews agreed and gave orders to bring the submarine about. This time they traversed the wreck east west. Andrews scratched at his head and run his hand about his stubbled chin. In a way he was glad it was to be Vanguard's last outing in the British sector. Port company were to go on leave and Starboard would immediately take over. The Baltic had been rumored as her next long range patrol (LRP). So it would be back to Gare Loch for the rest of them and a well earned rest. He realised this would be Seaton's only chance to find out what the -ORIC was carrying. He watched with some amusement as Dex got up and looked again at the optronic display.

"At the least the wreck isn't full of unexploded munitions." Stated Andrews. "Dammed stuff. We'd be weeks sorting that little lot out." The faint whirr of Vanguard's propulsor shifted her sofly through the water.

"Dammed nuisance these things! Just when I thought we were off home!" mumbled Masterton. Seaton loosened his collar. He had a feeling they'd just hit fortune's mother load. He spoke to Masterton and Captain Andrews quietly.  
"Would have been too dangerous to detonate the whole lot in one go if it were shells -   
Sir, I'd like to deploy the 'iron-claw' and recover one or two of those blocks. Be of interest to know what the cargo is."

"Isn't that already clear Commander? It's a mineral transport. Some kind of ore. Probably galena or lead. Maybe Bauxite. What with the war effort and all that. We haven't the time for a more detailed exam I'm afraid."  
"Sir I'd like it on record that I differ with your assessment, and I recommend that a sample of the cargo be recovered." Andrews gave him a fierce glare and Dex turned red in the face.  
But the Captain had seen the schoolboy look in Dexter Seaton's eyes. He decided to play the man's protest down. "Alright Commander. Have it your way. Launch the unmanned rover. You have two hours to recover and analyse a sample. Then we return to Port. What Admiral Groom will have to say about your mineral prospecting laddie, I don't know. But it's all our head's on the block if he's unhappy."

With a thunderous roar, the C130 Hercules Transport touched down smoothly at RAF Brize Norton. Bond was out of his seat and ready to leave the moment it taxied to a halt. Wing Commander Davies met him in his pristinely restored wartime jeep.

"Welcome Commander - Jump in and I'll take you over to the school of hard knocks!" Bond climbed in and the jeep whirled round, as if turning on a 5p coin. It rushed him over to the Institute block. The facilities had changed since Bond was there last. Now it was a rather plush affair that greeted him, compared to the old 'cell block nine'. As they alighted he shook Davies' hand, "Thank-you, Sir. I gather you were expecting me?"

"Yes. Everything is ready, as your chaps requested. Anything more you require just see the adjutant. And any problems, drop by my door, always open."

"Thank you sir. Just one more thing for now. Have any messages arrived from London for me?"

"Yes, I believe so. You can pick them up at the rec. desk. See Sgt. Marrillier." Bond was mildly perturbed at the prospect.

"Oh the man is perfectly reliable Mr. Bond," the briskly moving Wing-co assured him.

Bond wasn't assured at all. "In future Sir, I'd much prefer it if you personally kept them for me. Sorry to be difficult and all that."

"I see. Alright! Do all we can to help."

Bond had been informed that the section head from London was on his way down, also a man from station S. He would be careful not to overly involve the Scottish contingent. He took the charge sheet for his stay from Marillier. It had various briefing venues on it, but nothing of the detail. At least that was one worry out of the way for now. On the whole he felt well and truly welcomed. The RAF had always been good to the Service. He saluted a Sub. Lt. that passed him by and went in to change.  
The empty classroom was full of three rows of green plastic chairs, a projector screen, and a high easy-wipe board. The faint red and blue trails of previous briefings scarred its face. He sat down near the door. He was pleased to have ducked the scheduled day off and medical, but he would still need to be signed fit for duty by the divisional MO.  
The door suddenly crashed open and a tall girl struggled through it. Her arms full of charts and volumes of reports. Her dark hair fell neatly across her shoulders , and as she bent forward to kick the door shut with her heel Bond stood up. He noted the way the navy blue flight-suit clung perfectly to her ample curves. "Good morning," He said warmly. She ignored him for a moment, more concerned with her awkward load. Then having thrown the volumes onto a desk, she turned to face him. Bond swept his eyes across her front. The zippered suit was slack at the neck, and under the trim collar he caught a flash of a yellow silk neckerchief, strictly non regulation. It neatly set off the honey coloured tones of her face. He waited for her to compose herself. The load being dispersed across several desks. She was ranked a Lt. Commander. They were on a par . . . He held out his hand, "The name's Bond. James Bond."

"Sorry, I was in such a rushing." She said, then produced her hand. "Dr Lancia Carter, Mr. Bond. Or I should call you, Commander Bond?" The slim, delicate hand searched the air for Bond's. He hesitated, then shook it briefly. A roll of charts escaped its tie and spun across the table toward him. She trapped the chart and snapped a rubber band over it.

"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure." Said bond, noting the way her pair of wire framed Gucci glasses accentuated the technical presence. "An unusual name. Isn't it? Lancia Carter?"

"Oh, my last name eez Italian too. But nobody can pronounce eet. Carter is easier for the Engleesh, I think." The rest of the charts suddenly sprang free.

"I dare say. But I'd like to give it a shot." said Bond, as he bent down to catch a roll on its way to the floor. Incredibly she beat him to it's rescue. As they stood up together his pale blue eyes met with a long smouldering look that transfixed him. She looked away coyly and smiled again.

"Alright - if you like . . . my name is, Lancia Ciro Piaggio Coeleonenoa. Zair. Now you?"

Bond knew she had him right away. He stumbled badly on, "Corleo - nen -oa?"

"You zee Mr. Bond. I was right wazn't I?"

"It would seem so Miss, Coeleonenoa."

"Ah . . . almost. But you can practice my name in your own time. We have much work to do. Oh! No smoking zank you." Bond put away the dull gunmetal case. She ignored him while organising her papers, all the time humming to herself. He liked this girl, and suspected the days following might bring an interesting challenge or two.

They sat down and Dr. Carter motioned to the projectionist. For the next hour Bond was transfixed. Lancia went over every detail concisely. The briefing was complex and needed his full concentration, but those sensuous lips were a magnetic distraction. He was completely mesmerised. Toward the end of the briefing the room grew hot and stuffy, and the last ten minutes were particularly interesting as Lancia loosened her suit and scarf and sat astride a desk, fanning herself with a sheaf of papers. When the lights came up Bond approached her. "Shall we get some Coffee? I could do with a cigarette."

"No zank you. I have anozzer debrief at 3. We'll meet again tomorrow. We can take zum lunch, if we get fineeshed on time, yes? – Iz that how you say eet? Take lunch?" Bond smiled. She had him again. A net serve for him, and an ace from her. "Yes it is how we say, eet . . . We'll take lunch!" They smiled at one another while Bond loaded her arms with the charts.

Back in his room he tried to forget Lancia. As he went over the homework she'd given him he realized how taxing his cover was. He must stay focused. The last thing he needed now was a girl in the way. If he was to pull this thing off he'd need every ounce of energy at his disposal. This job was a dangerous bullet to bite on. The gear shift in mindset worked and he ploughed on into the night with his introduction to Hydographics and Bathymetrics. At two in the morning a message arrived. It disturbed his study.

**37 – ENFalcon – Epicentre: African Coast, Tunisia. 1 mile. C. Evaporated**.

**Chapter 7**

**The Vanguard Secret **

HMS Vanguard shifted her position to twenty degrees north of the wreck. A roving claw had been deployed through tube 3. Seahorse was ready to be fired from two, and would be picked up by RFA Huntsman at 0100hrs tomorrow. At that time they would have a clearer picture of the incline, the wreck and the trench. Dex confirmed the trajectory. As the survey craft was fired, the claw was remotely released from its hover pack. At last he would discover what cargo the -ORIC was carrying. The rover was controlled by a simple joy-stick onboard, and after half an hour of delicate manipulation they had singled out a case for retrieval. Dex watched its progress on the monitor.  
"How's it coming Leach?"  
"No problems yet, sir. Case intact. 72 kilos of samples. Salvage available now." On hearing the news Captain Andrews smiled and prepared to leave control. "Alright, take her up number 1. Let's get the booty aboard and grab some air. I'll need that report as soon as."

"Thank you sir." Dex saluted, and then gave orders to the Chief of the watch, "Prepare to surface! " The giant turbines woke into life, and as Vanguard blew her ballast tanks, jets of compressed air pushed their way to the surface in long silver chains. In a few moments the hydroplanes turned and her bow pointed up. Slowly she began to rise toward the light.

Andrews removed his cap and sat down heavily in his too neatly arranged quarters. Sitting beneath a portrait of Rear Admiral Beaty, he took a bottle of whisky out of his desk drawer and poured himself a shot. Whatever this cargo was, it wouldn't be what the men expected it to be, he knew that much. And if it had great value he would only have to issue more reports. In fact he would get onto Faslane now, see if they could issue an identification for the wreck. He took a long gulp of his drink, looked back at the glass then swallowed the rest. A silver framed photograph of his daughter beamed at him. Jenny would be pleased he'd soon be home.

Back in the main control room Dex had turned to Masterton, "Get onto shipping records, find the registration for, something o r i c. Try the whole alphabet if need be." Dex gave some thought about what to do when the stuff came aboard. If it was worth anything, then – well, no use in jumping the gun. He would just have to wait like the rest of them

On the starboard monitor he watched the wooden case hovering at the surface. There was a heavy swell. "I want OMS relayed to control central Leach. And watch that claw – she's going to flip over if we're not careful."

"Aye aye, sir!"  
Ian Masterton came on the com from deck 3. "Commander? According to national records sir, there are 44,000 known shipwrecks off our shores, but that is only a tiny sample. By extrapolating from shipping figures I reckon the true figure is more like half a million. In short I can't find anything on the '_dashed'_ ORIC."

"Thank you Lieutenant Masterton. But let's try harder and find out what this one is, shall we?"  
"Alright sir. Masterton out." Dex Seaton continued to supervise the return of the sea-rover. Vanguard suddenly broke surface, a boiling froth of water breaking across her shining bows. With her rolling in the swell Dex opened the hatch and climbed steadily down the sail. The weather was murky and a bitter wind blew into his face. He stepped carefully onto the deck and took a deep lungful of fresh air. He had to screw up his eyes as the rover was captured and manhandled onto the submarine. In the bright light he scoured the horizon, nothing. No other vessels in sight.

A squall was gathering in the south west, and the 'claw's pincer arms were firmly clamped around the two metre long wooden case. But they would need to get the thing below before the storm arrived. He ordered more men on deck. When the recovery was complete Dex sent the men back to their stations. As soon as the air locks were re-compressed, he gave the dive order and Vanguard slipped quietly beneath the waves again.

At the head of a small team gathered in hold number 4, Dex hurriedly pushed a crowbar into the sealed crate and levered upwards. The nails gave a low squeal as the top rose. He moved round, levering each corner carefully, then finally prised the lid off with a great downward jerk. The top clattered to his feet. But as he peered inside he never knew quite what hit him. All eyes stared in disbelief. The case was full of Emeralds. Each crystal as big as a man's fist, and all of them a luscious dark green colour. If it were true, then this crate alone would be worth a small fortune. And there were at least two hundred crates still down there. It was more money than a man could imagine.

Dex determined to rig a test at once, and news of the discovery shot round the submarine like a bullet. Fact and rumour ricocheted around the decks, till everyman was thinking of himself and the untold riches that lay within his grasp. Two announcements were quickly made. The men were to remain at their stations. No one was to remove anything from Lab 4 unless given signed permission. Now everything hinged on what Captain Andrews would decide to do.

The CPO's had already voted for limited Salvage. Lieutenant Masterton and Petty Officer Lines would support whatever their Captain decided. They had no vested interest. So for now, all the men could do was hold their breath and wait. All, that is, except Lt. Commander Dex Seaton. His fantasy of owning untold wealth was already sat in his hands. The jewelled facets of each wonderful stone drawing him deeper and deeper into reverie.

In Lab 4, having cut thin sections from the tip of one jewel, Dex looked hard into the polished depths. Through a P4 microscope he studied the tiny inclusions, the streaks of white lightning that coursed through the stone's heart - utterly fascinated by the way they fractured and bounced the light into his eyes. Yes these were indeed emeralds.

The most beautiful, deepest and brilliant green imaginable is Emerald green. In top qualities fine Emeralds are even more valuable than diamonds. Awestruck, Seaton picked up the largest specimen to hand. A vivid moss-green crystal that sparkled in his greedy fingers. And more of the same littered the benches all around him. He was literally shaking with excitement. Lab6 had become a veritable Aladdin's cave. Looking about the room Dex began to laugh . . .is

As for the chemical tests, the traces of calcite matrix, the fully formed crystal axis, the type of inclusions – the pale plant like structures known as 'le jardin' - all pointed to the fact that the stones were of a very rare type. Using photomicrography a lab assistant compared and double checked Dex's results. He was soon convinced of the assessment. Given a few hours the whole company might own jewels that the Mogul emperors killed for. Need anyone ever know? Dex began to plot how to bring them up quietly. 135 men equalled 135 big mouths. How could he ensure the company stayed quiet?

An hour later Cmdr. Seaton knocked firmly on Captain Andrews' door. He entered the cabin removed his cap and lay several of the largest uncut Emeralds carefully on his desk. The silver haired Andrews nodded, and briefly looked up from his paper work. Dex took the cue, cleared his throat and gave his report. "I believe the cargo partly consists of exceptionally fine and rare Emeralds, sir. Perhaps the biggest ever found . . . The largest aboard weighs nearly 100 carats. There are still several tons of minerals on the bottom. There's no telling what the other cases hold. But my recommendation is to pursue the matter further." He fidgeted a little, then saluted smartly. The Captain smiled, "I'll give it my attention shortly, Dex. Something's come up. Let you know in good time. Take us down to 120 metres, and put us on a sou' west bearing." Seaton was about to leave when Andrews said to him mildly, "Mean a lot to you - this cargo?" Dex turned, swallowed hard, then said with a fatuous smile, "Interesting job sir. A lot of fun for the men." He closed the door quietly, leaving the ol' man to ponder. Whatever happened next, he would get those stones aboard. Just as many as the dammed tub could carry.

As they dived a second confidential signal came in for Captain Andrews: _'Addendum to first report: Stay clear of wreck site. RMS DORIC not to be approached. Repeat NOT to be approached. Wreck and cargo extremely dangerous. Hold position and await further instruction."_

Climbing the steps into the crimson fuselage M took a last look at Mannings aerodrome. The rich, the profligate, the deadly famous - all had used this private airfield. Nice to know how Pettigrew travelled. Had the man no shame? Public money was public money after all. M's sour thoughts were to the last dutiful. A prop driven spotter roared overhead as he stood on the portable stairway. Its engine faded just as a crewman called out to him from the open cabin. "Ready Sir?" M sneered his reply, "Alright Pilot!" He knew this locale and would make a mental note of their heading when they took off. The Bowman communicator was safely aboard, all that remained was for him to contact station L. But all his attempts so far had been compromised. These men were not quite the fools they looked. He had underestimated them. They had searched his luggage thoroughly. Had found most of the contents of Q's bag of tricks. With condescending laughter they had turfed out his maps, compass and knife. But only Ash-Face was accompanying him now. He'd seen the driver say his pathetic goodbyes at the tower. He hoped Ash-Face liked a drink or two. With a bit of luck the chap might sleep for a time – M suddenly drew himself up - by God! Wishful thinking! The very thing he was always telling OO7 to be careful of. He smiled to himself. Well, perhaps it was just possible things would work out for the best.

Dex sat drumming his pencil on an empty notepad. Incredibly Captain Andrews had pulled him off the recovery operation. Of course he'd lost his temper and spoken harshly. In consequence he had been asked for his complaints in writing. But no report could explain how he was feeling. HMS Vanguard was still sitting there, hovering above untold millions in uncut Emeralds, and whatever else was in those rotting crates. Precious time was ticking away, while Andrews awaited his classified signals from the blasted admiralty. Now, with his pathetic allegiances and his ridiculous story – the order had been broadcast. The captain's edgy voice had rapped out his commands.

"All hands - the wreck is a no go! Prepare to jettison cargo." Dex was growing more angry by the minute. He had to do something. 'Christ! The biggest Emeralds the world has ever crated were lying on the seafloor beneath his feet, and the ol' man was planning to add to them! Why not just take a dozen cases and say no more? But that wasn't good enough for the likes of him. Oh no - He had to do it by the book. What dangers could possibly lay in a case of mute stones? And what was all this stuff about meteoric geodes? And 'a purely scientific reason to stay clear of the wreck?' Like hell! All this was admiralty bunkum, and it was denying him a fortune.'

As Dex entered the spacious cabin Captain Andrews looked up in surprise, as if some secret premonition had suddenly come true. Faced with the automatic pistol, he held up his hands and tried to talk. The hiss and thud of the silenced weapon stopped him, the bullets whipping his body back over the chair. Before he died his heels jigged noisily on the floor. Dex looked down at the body. There was a small dark hole in Andrew's chest, another in his side. A crimson splatter speckled the gold braid on his white shirt. Dex fumbled around, until his questing fingers closed tightly on a metal object lying by the captain's hand. He checked it against the key he kept round his own neck. They were identical. He picked up the body and sat it in the chair, then he dressed Andrews in his jacket. Pointing at the man's temple, with another gentle squeeze on the trigger the gun spat for the last time. He opened the com. His uncanny impersonation of the Captain was put to good use at last ­– from the ribald laughter of the mess, to his chance to collect millions. Now all the officers who required answers must be brought for'ard . . .

**Chapter 8  
**

**Death Wears Jewels**

In briefing room C23 James Bond whirled around quickly as a stack of files were banged down on the desk behind him. "Getting old and slow James?"  
Bond immediately recognised the voice beneath the flying helmet. He laughed, "Hullo Mathis! By Jove, I thought you'd retired from shop keeping long ago. "

"Never you mind!"  
"Heard you Joined that American chap? One who wanted a security man for his oil business – am I right?"

"Almost." Mathis pushed up the visor and shook Bond warmly by the hand. "I like to stay in touch. You know the Service. You can never really be out. But remember, I'm eight years your junior. So don't mention the 'R' word around me until you've got that little gold watch yourself." Bond smiled and eased himself out of his chair. He walked with Mathis to a secure room in the next block. They traded insults and old stories for the next few minutes. And when they were safely entrenched in the secure room, Bond pressed a lever to set the locks.

"So what have you got for me?"  
Mathis removed his helmet and sat down. "Well, it seems as if M is certainly in a spot of bother. According to a scrambled personal from Tanner last night, something's very wrong, James. Have you heard about Pettigrew?"

"I know he's acting HOS."

"He's in M's shoes alright – Lock stock and barrel. Even down to remodelling his office. He's disposed of his precious prints of HMS Repulse. The signed books are gone. The convoy photographs. Got a whole new bookcase of Latin tomes in their place. Oh, and a modern picture of the Queen. Damn him! Moneypenny has been shifted over to translation I hear. And a . . . Miss Foulkes, keeps the diary."

Bond grit his teeth. The old man would be more than furious. But surely Pettigrew was on our side. He hoped this was simply a personal feud between two of the largest bulls in the field. But what on earth was causing it? He slapped his old friend across the shoulders.  
"It's bad Mathis – very bad - but I've got a job to do here. A bloody thankless task it is too. The bunch behind it have tried to 'cool' me twice. And I'm determined to get to the bottom of it. M will have to fight the Pettigrew wars himself, for now. What more can I do? I -"

"I can tell you what! Just sit down and listen." Bond took off his jacket and laid it across the table. He took a seat and put his hands behind his head.

"Alright ol chap – fire away."  
"In April 1947 A large meteorite crashed into North Africa. The surface Evaporated -"  
Bond stopped him. "ENFalcon?" Mathis smiled – " So, you've been busy?"  
"I might know something - a meteorite geode - found in North Africa – rare crystals collected – outer casing - vapourised? That much is clear to me now."

"Nearly twelve tons of crystals, to be precise. The crater was a kilometer wide. Well, after recovery there were signs of the stones turning iridescent, after exposure to air or other atmospheric compounds – Brilliant Emeralds turned to worthless violets! But although of slight monetary value, these things are deadly. The process generally takes about three weeks – a very fine dew appears on the crystal surface. Like breath on a mirror. In the dew are D type amino acids - peptides – triptides – of types uncommon to Earth. These react with subjects handling the specimens, or with people exposed for longer than a few days. Apparently makes em' go off the rails."

"So a boffin goes bonkers and you think its dangerous? Where do we fit in?"  
"Well that's not all - the mineral itself eventually destabilizes – reaching up to one thousand times the explosive power of an equivalent amount of C4, nitro - you name it! When tests were made on its use as an explosive agent it proved too unpredictable. Blew two lab boys to smithereens. Its magnetic properties are also unusual - they disturb sensitive instruments and switch polarity with alarming results. In summary this damned stuff is highly dangerous! If the whole hoard has been found in the wrong hands it could prove cataclysmic. "

Bond speculated that who ever had sent the earlier message was either warning him, or wanted to help. He must find out who his secret aide was. He listened carefully as Mathis continued the briefing, "We have reason to believe that ENFalcon is back on the market. The stone is highly sought after – only a few specimens were retained. Once our chaps got possession, the rocks were classified. But the test results are well known. Unable to tame the discovery, or exploit it with pre-war technology, we shipped the whole consignment off to be sealed in a Norwegian Fiord. Unfortunately the ship carrying the cargo hit a loose mine and sunk in the North Sea. As I said, her position couldn't be ascertained – no ship to shore communication was possible while the meteor was on board. But eventually she was traced. We need to know exactly what the deal comprises and where ENFalcon is being kept. "

There was a knock at the door. Bond glanced at the monitor, then opened it. Lancia came in. She saw Mathis and beamed him a wide smile. "Thanks for sending the message as instructed Mathis. And James, you never called me. I was waiting for you all evening. Didn't you get my little note?"

Bond leaned back in his chair and laughed - "Ah, I might have known. The little games. The fake Italian accent. Very well done." Bond held up his hands in mock surrender. "You have me. Now what's your real name, Dr Carter?" Mathis grinned from ear to ear, "I see you two have already met."

Lancia burst into laughter, "Oh we are old friends, aren't we James, et voila!" And with that she removed her wig and shook out a thick length of ash blond hair. "My name is Mercedes, OO7. I work for MI5. This is a joint operation. Understood?" Bond looked bemused. Another woman, another joint operation? She moved closer to him, he winced and felt a hollow shift in the pit of his stomach. Could such a mistake happen over again? "Everything alright James?" Mathis interjected. Mercedes looked nonplussed."Col. Tanner has sent me here to do a job OO7. Please don't try to make it awkward for me. And I really am an expert in hydrographic and Bathymetric surveys, just in case you're wondering. Oh, and I _will_ be accompanying you to Firth of Clyde - as Dr. Carter, of course." The smooth talking agent smiled at the finish of her curt speech.

Bond pursed his lips and whistled at the lithe figure in front of him. It would be a shame to drop her in a ditch somewhere on the way. Or on the other hand, maybe not. With the girl to help him carry the bluff he might have more of a chance . . . Alright, he would play down the deceit for now.

"This job could turn out to be one hell of a party, Mercedes." He warned, "These people mean business. I take it you know what happened to me recently? If not I'll let you into that secret soon enough." Mercedes laughed. "Well, let's get to it. 'Iva feelin' that Mistah Bond is missing his little Coeleonenoa already, eh?" Bond threw some papers at her. She ducked quickly and beckoned to them both, "Come along my two 'Agenti Licenzas,' let's taker lunch."

**Chapter 9**

**Crash Dive**

Dex had planned to wait in Captain Andrews' quarters until all the cargo was aboard. But before the final crate arrived a low booming echoed from the wreck site. Dex heaved Andrews back into his chair and put his jacket on him. The final head shot had proved messy, but necessary. He cleaned things up as best he could and arranged the desk carefully. He settled Andrews' peaked cap neatly by his blotter. The Captain was hereby unfit for duty, due to suicide. Number 1 would take over. He then proceeded hastily to the control room. A device on the wreck had exploded, the hull was collapsing. Dex stared nervously at the debris field. Turbulence was breaking up the thick muds. The stones were gone.

"How many crates do we have aboard Leech?"  
"Eighteen sir. But with the claw damaged we won't be able to salvage any more. Not unless we return now with the RAID."  
"Alright. Let's go down and see what there's left to scrape up."

When Vanguard finally surfaced, curiously her instruments were ten degrees off true north. Dex put it down to the massive cables lining the sea floor. But he'd never heard of such an anomaly before. He returned to Andrews' cabin with Leech. On discovering the Captain's suicide, Dex asked him not to move a thing but to bring down the boat's surgeon. When Shrimpton arrived, Dex took him aside and broke open a crate of stones. In his pocket he kept tight hold of the automatic.

In number four hold, held at gun point, four officers and two PO's who had declined to throw in their lot with Dex and his Pirates, as CPO Wigstaff had called them, were awaiting their fate. It wasn't long in coming. Before explaining to the crew, Dex had rigged a make -shift phosgene gas cannister. It was a simple, if time consuming process, to make from what was available: Carbon monoxide, Chloride and Charcoal. However, unless he planned to sink Vanguard and rig an escape party the plan might be discovered. Eventually it was Lt. Mulgrave who came up with the coup-de-grace.

Dex used his impersonation of the Captain one last time, to good effect. The order of the selected ranks to number four hold to await orders would be blamed on a crazed Captain, who after killing four of his men, shot himself. All Dex and the five mutineers had to do was stick to their guns during the following enquiry. If that was at all possible, the eventual outcome would prove extremely profitable.

**Chapter 10**

**The Sunken Fleet**

The Merlin helicopter put down at Wemyss bay and the uniformed couple quickly transferred to the awaiting car. The vehicle had been airlifted in and was being unpacked when Bond spotted Q looking out to sea from the jetty. He was dressed as a local fisherman. "On holiday Q? Bit early for Salmon, isn't it?" said Bond with a smile.  
"Alright OO7. I haven't come all this way to listen to you. Now pay attention! This is the latest Aston Martin Vanquish, V12. Four hundred and fifty brake horsepower, with a top speed of over two hundred miles per hour. Our extras have pushed that to nearly three! Traction control. Spiked treads -the usual features on gearing and turbo, plus front and rear machine guns. Now - for this operation Tanner gave us your special request. It works. I tested the prototype. But I want you to be very careful with it. It can only be used once."  
"Well, once should be quite enough Q. With any luck! Goodbye."  
Mercedes smiled impatiently as Bond opened the door for her. Q picked up his fishing rods and grimly watched the car disappear round the headland. The drive would only take them half an hour. Long enough to straighten out their movements for the afternoon. They were to appear as colleagues not lovers. That was essential. Mercedes required room to work her charms on whoever she thought worthwhile.

With Bond at the helm the convertible almost flew down the winding river valleys. Towards the base there was a strong breeze and the steep pitch of the scree slopes had tossed rubble into the road. On every bend the motor's tyres ripped across the large stones and a smell of burning rubber hit in the air. Bond spun sharply on the next hairpin scuffing a stream's white railing. Mercedes jerked her head towards him and shouted over the roar of the engine, "James! Slow down! My cap's coming loose." Then, " look at the state of my hair. Oh! Let's get there in one piece shall we, for God's sake!" Bond ignored the feline complaints and worked his way through the gears again. His racing changes felt untimely. Eventually he felt obliged to speak, "Sorry! I needed the practice. Honestly. And this breeze will blow off any cobwebs."

The car sped on for the next two miles. Bond finally slowed down when he saw the outer fence of HMS Neptune looming above the downs. As the road dipped toward the coastline Mercedes fixed her hair, and they presented an official air as they arrived at the gate. Passes were shown, the barrier lifted and Bond drove smoothly onto the base. He smiled at the MI5 agent as she climbed out. Brushing herself down she haughtily lifted her own luggage from the boot and without another word walked moodily away. He drove a little further on and parked the car outside the barracks. As he stood gazing across the base he felt oddly nervous. Oh well, he'd start by finding his accommodation then see Admiral Groom. The man would know nothing of his mission, and the interview would settle him nicely into his cover.

The four men sat quietly in the iron clad room. A small desk lamp cast angry shadows across their unshaven faces. Gathered round the large oak table, they listened to the sound of the water pumps echoing down open air ducts, as if a giant throat was constantly gargling at them. Behind the bench a glass viewing port was slaked with weed, but the water was surprisingly clear. It had taken a year to construct the headquarters. A unique conversion. Only the Navy could have accomplished it, but it was the perfect resting place for ENFalcon.  
Lt. Roberts stared blankly at a photograph in the centre of the table, his screwed up eyes the only clue to a hellish migraine. All four men looked exhausted, their faces drawn and haggard. Commander Fellows broke the silence. "Well, it's 1800 hours. In one minute I am –" Abruptly the door flew open.

"Good evening gentlemen. I trust this court is ready?" He nodded to Admiral Groom, whose haunted eyes stared blankly in return. Judge Seaton took his place on the raised dais, his scarlet gown billowing round his massive frame. As he settled into the high-backed armchair he smiled at his courtiers with a set of curiously blackened teeth. Tugging on the ruffled ermine trim, that nestled against his thick jowls, he reviewed his agenda. "I am to hear evidence from Roberts and Watts."   
Lt. Roberts thought the freckled cheeks more bloated than ever. He avoided the man's gaze as Seaton's violet eyes painfully raked the faces at the table.

"Alright - Let's start with Masterton, shall we?" The ugly jowls seemed to move out of sync with the blued lips. "My strictest orders for his disposal were ignored. You see, Masterton, when still with us, could be controlled, could be fed with whatever we wanted our enemies to swallow. Now that chance is gone. Later there will be a price to pay for this mistake. Mr. Fellows, you may give your report!" The Commander rose to his feet. "It has proved more difficult to eradicate the problem than we first thought. I propose the full squad be put on full alert. We do not know the whereabouts of our target now. But sooner or later –" Dex raised his hand, stopping Fellows mid-flow.

"Sooner or later? Your failure has placed this court in the utmost danger." Seaton cracked his knuckles one by one. Fellows stared down at the photograph on the desk and started to perspire. Seaton lowered his hand. "Sooner or later is not good enough!" Fellows gulped hard. He recalled the assembly used to be ten strong. Dex Seaton had already destroyed five of its members.  
When the Judge spoke again it was in a harsh whisper. " I will not be carrying out the usual punishment today. Another corpse will serve only to expose us further." Admiral Groom nodded in agreement. Dex Seaton bubbled spittle from the corner of his mouth as he pointed a swollen finger directly at Watts. "Now! Mr. Watts, your full report."

David Watts bit on his lip and curled his clammy fist round the violet stone he had had grafted to his palm. He shivered before he spoke. "Look, Henderson failed in his duty. Yates is dead. I put it to the vote - that this court be disbanded for two months." He quickly sat down again.

Seaton slammed his fist on the table. "I know your best men have failed. I know that you have failed me! But I disagree with the motion. We must keep the shipment on time. For that reason justice will be dispensed. Duty must be done. There are forty millions at stake here. What life is worth that? We cannot give up now! Gentlemen, it has taken three years to reach this very delicate point in our negotiations. We cannot run. Technical modifications have been slow. Yes. But now we have a device that will work. We will begin the mission from Vanguard at 0330 hrs. Our troubles will all be dealt with. One by one we will remove our enemies. Beginning not sooner or later, but now!" He paused to adjust the enormous crystal that hung round his neck, its violet rays bathed his complexion in a satanic light.

"There is also the odd discovery I have made under lab conditions. I have not yet decided how to exploit this. But I need you, gentlemen, with me. Now, please indicate your status . . ." The men nodded their assent quickly. All except Commander Roberts. He stayed out on a limb. Seaton's eyes were almost jumping from their sockets. He looked at the man closely. The heavily sweat stained shirt indicated panic. "Then you, Roberts will stay here! You will not be going aboard the Vanguard tomorrow. You will take care of our guests personally."  
He took up the photograph from the table. "Sir Miles Messervy looks very uncomfortable in his new accommodation. So I'm sure his little servant will obey our every whim."

As the meeting broke up the brooding, melancholic Admiral Groom smiled and slurped on his acid drop, a perpetual habit of his now. The logistics of the assembly had become complex. The sale of the perfected goods was more dangerous than he'd bargained for. ENFalcon was exactly as a minister had once described it to him: a creation from hell. Groom was beginning to wish he were already dead.

A harsh frost covered the windscreen of the car. The driver was impatient. The ice scraper had broken at first try. He threw the remains of the plastic handle into the tees and started the engine. He turned the heater full on, then heaved the body out of the back seat. It folded into the boot very neatly . After tying the lid down with thick cord he began weighting the seats with rocks. The Murder of Paula Legg had taken him two hours. She'd claimed all through her slow and painful death that James Bond had told her nothing. Nothing about his work, his service or his present mission. She also didn't know anything about the SITD3. 'So why did he want to hurt her?' The little voice was haunting him a little. So tearful. So touching. The bright blue eyes had begged him constantly for mercy. When he finally took his souvenir, he was elated. They'd driven several miles afterwards, passing only one other vehicle. Later, in the cold stillness of the small hours, the blue Ford Escort sank gently into Lake Coniston Waters. When the tail lights finally disappeared dark shadows along the bank concealed the Massimo's climb into the forest.  
Walking along the icy main road yellow headlights suddenly struck out through the trees. He stopped, ducked into the verge and signaled with a flashlight. The car drove towards him slowly. He walked up and briefly spoke to the driver then got in. To an onlooker the man might have been a hitchhiker, tired, cold, or simply lost. The big saloon that picked him up was warm and cosy. Massimo relaxed on the back seat, helping himself to a flask of coffee laced with rum. As the car picked up speed, its powerful lamps cutting through the darkness, he wiped his knife clean. Before long he would be in Scotland.

The old ramjet engine lay rusting in the afternoon sunshine. A large enamelled sign pointed skywards, its message broken in half. 'Terminal 4' it proclaimed. In the open compound lay several other strangely unique relics. Among them a broken periscope, said to be from U166, and a capstan from HMS Vanguard, whose magazine fires blew her to pieces in 1917. Most of the machinery lying about had been salvaged from wrecks in and around Scapa Flow. Bond was carefully examining a coral encrusted light machine gun, while his guide, Lt. Mulgrave, stood patiently by. Bond turned the barrel over in his hands, and from time to time glanced at his curator. The studious and quietly spoken man, had a sallow complexion. Too many months spent undersea, Bond thought. Mulgrave was a bright, yet somewhat unsociable type. But was he the enemy?

The museum of curiosities couldn't fail to fascinate all of HMS Neptune's visitors. The German battle fleet wrecks were well known. Divers came from all over the world to explore the scuttled warships in Scapa Flow. The Orkneys enjoyed good visibility underwater. Local boats could be chartered in the summer months and Bond made idle conversation about them.  
"Must be plenty of stuff still down there. Anyone selling souvenirs?" Mulgrave scratched at his chin.

" 'fraid not sir. Wouldn't do to encourage looting, would it? Anyway – its dangerous diving on those old tubs." Bond smiled to himself as he picked up a neatly curved belt of ammunition that was rusted solid.

"Dangerous? Not what I hear. Most of the wrecks lie at thirty five, maybe forty metres. Good margin for safety. Maybe you could take me out if we get time. I'd like to see one of the cruisers. The Bremmen, perhaps. Or a battleship?"

"I'm sure a local man would take you. Nothing doing here as far as I know. The Orkneys are a good way north."

"Of course. Thought you chaps enjoyed wreck diving? Seems like a lot of fun to me."

"Sorry, we don't make a habit of it. This museum hasn't been added to since the 70's.

Some Yanks donated the last of it. Portholes, that gun. The bullets you're holding. Oh, I'd be careful with those, they're still live." Bond looked up quickly. The slick comment had given him a small scare. He gently placed the ribbon of rusted bullets back on its block.

"Ever seen anything further out? North sea must have a thousand wrecks . I -?"

"Can't say I have Commander." Interrupted Mulgrave. "This isn't a histORICal dockyard! We sail and repair the nations nuclear deterrent here, as a priority. I know you science chaps don't care a bit for the real Navy. But -" he pulled himself up short. "Well, if you've seen enough, shall we go? I believe your Italian colleague is briefing us at 1500?"

Bond seemed to have rattled the man. But was it his comments on Naval duties, or his jibes about wreck diving? Things were going too slowly. He needed to turn up the heat on these fellows. He'd been on the base for 2 days now and had nothing to show for it.

After the briefing Bond met Mercedes on his way back to barracks. Unfortunately she had nothing to report. Several men had asked her to the club, but as it was Bond's preserve for the moment, she'd declined. Her silken hair was tied back, Wren fashion, in a bun. She looked smart and attractive, rather like a special treat that one is only allowed to sample on a Sunday.  
"Look, If you are asked to the Casino again, go!" he urged. "We've serviced the cover enough. We need results now. Try and be there tonight, and be ready to make a move. We are putting to sea on Victorious the day after tomorrow. I've got to have a lead by then."

Mercedes nodded her approval. At last Mr. James Bond was coming round to doing things her way. She knew she could force a lead from at least one of these geeks. She only hoped it would be credited to her and not her majesty's agent. They saluted a heavily overweight Captain who lumbered past them. Bond thought his weight must have ballooned recently as his uniform looked extremely tight. They stopped walking. Bond turned to Mercedes.  
"Submariners are an odd lot, Lancia. Highly secretive. A sect of their own making. I think it's high time I made a start on the Masterton enquiry. This club seems to be the right sort of place to stir things up a little." Mercedes looked directly into the cold blue eyes, "Alright. I'll try and get a date. I hope you've got some funds left, James. I heard last night went rather badly! Hmmm?" She smiled and raised an eyebrow at him. Bond grinned. It was true, he'd stupidly hugged the roulette wheel till gone three and lost heavily. So now he would try his luck at cards.  
"Tomorrow it will be Black Jack, my darling Lancia. And I've no doubt my little chaperone will be there again. Although it's likely that someone else is doing the watching. Too obvious to be Parfit. And as for last night I suppose you realise the tables are crooked. Don't raise an eyebrow at me! It's true." She sniffed loudly in Bond's direction and turned into the WRNS block. Bond walked on. He wasn't talking bull-shit this time. The tables were crooked, he was pretty sure of it. He shrugged of the lingering memory of Mercedes. It was time to think about Admiral Groom. The old boy had been full of bluster and oddly distracted when they'd last met. Clearly near retirement - Bond swallowed hard at the thought of that word crossing his path again. He walked smartly off toward his quarters. The Captain they'd passed earlier stepped unseen out of a doorway. He'd listened till the couple had separated, then making a mental note of James Bond drifted on his way. Captain Dexter had sighted the enemy.

The makeshift cell was small and cold and damp. Drips intermittently fell from the ceiling and pooled around M's legs. The strong wire cut into his wrists. He'd been hauled over the coals for two days, but things were not as bad as they seemed. The convoys of old had seen him sunk in the Baring Sea twice. July '53 had seen him on a munitions ship that took a direct hit in the magazine. On that occasion his body had been blown clean over the foc'sle . . . M recalled his three days in the water after the sinking . . . they were hard times. He steadied himself and regulated his breathing. The rooms hick atmosphere was clogging his chest. It was difficult to get a good lungful. He'd been sparsely rationed, but there was plenty of water and basic amenities. A low crashing sound filled the room day and night. White noise perhaps? No. The thud of a tide? A pump vibrating continuously? That was more likely. In some respects he could swear he was beneath the sea . . . ridiculous of course. But the underground prison was as salt damp as any subterranean cell could be. The thing he found hardest was the thickness of the air. It was stifling. Its heavy morbid atmosphere always trying to crush the life out of him.

He'd suspected, of course, that his escorts were involved in the recovery ofENFalcon. But not that Pettigrew was a traitor. That had taken time to sink in. A man who'd been at Churchill's right hand - gone bad. Incredible! A man at the cutting edge of Secret Service Operations. And that, when many of its current agents were still in their prams, or unborn. It served to show that time really is a country's biggest foe. Any day a man can turn against it. If it was ENFalcon that turned Pettigrew then M somehow felt sorry for him. 'Not entirely his fault. Probably the greed of seeing the stones fresh from the ocean.' He repeated this to himself when he recalled the giant Emeralds. A sight for sore eyes? Certainly! From time to time he wondered if his only broadcast had reached home.

**Chapter 11**

**Black Jack!**

The green baize of a gambling table produces a blood red tinge to the vision when stared at for hours on end. That simple biological fact seemed at its worst whenever James Bond glanced at the ravishing brunette opposite. The white Givenchy dress flickered pink in front of his bloodshot eyes. He knew the phenomenon well. In turn the man with his arm around the voluptuous creature gave Bond a subtle signal that it was time to cash in his chips and find some other amusement. Wandering through the dark-lit rooms of Vanguard's officers club, Bond stopped suddenly at the black-jack table. Mercedes was having fun at least.

There was a ring of steel round these people, and Bond couldn't quite put his finger on what it was they were hiding. But he knew that something might give if he could find the right tactic. Their steel would bend, like any other. Their whole set-up wreaked of in-subordination. A group of renegades operating to their own devices within Her Majesty's Navy. Christ! The whole job was surreal. Black Jack and his crew - the truly modern pirates. Better equipped than any swashbuckling vagabond of the past. But it was happening here. Closely ordered. Fully disciplined. A powerful force to reckon with. This deathly quiet that hung over the base was unheard of elsewhere. Anyone could feel it; the all pervading dullness. Even the club's low ceilings gave a broody and oppressive feel to the swish, walnut panelled casino. But the gaming room had the distinct advantage of a perfect view over the Submarine pens. It was partly for that reason, and certainly for one other, Bond had spent the last two nights as the guest of Naval co-respondant, Ian Parfit, his erstwhile chaperon. But in short this evening's play had not been a success. He was still three hundred down. At the roulette wheel earlier, for no apparent reason, his luck and foresight had run out on him. The exceptional single malt he'd been drinking had provided false cheer. Later he'd switched to a twenty year old Macallan and managed to claw back some of his losses. But when he finally quit the Black Jack tables he was only some forty pounds up. It seemed even the tables bordered on running crooked! But he prove nothing as yet.  
Walking across to the plate-glass viewing deck he nodded in passing to Rear Admiral Groom. Looking out over the winking lights and thin columns of steam that threaded up from the docks, Bond knew he had reached that saturated point of boredom that betrays itself by a greying of the face and a severe puffing around the eyes. Of course this could also be attributed to the innumerable cigarettes and 'three finger' shots he'd consumed. But he felt contrite, and the only slim interest left to him now was the wish for a good night's sleep. With Parfit in tow he'd been unable to get to bed before three am. After last night's gambling marathon he suspected the parties were a plot to wear him down. Suddenly he had an idea. He would play on the haggard look, doubling its intensity. Give off an air of submission and weakness. Perhaps weakness was the key . . .

Bond walked up to Mercedes and pulled a sour face. She gave him the once over and decided he was too far gone to be of much use. "Go to bed James. I'll see you in the morning. Perhaps something will turn up when we leave the base. You look exhausted by the way." She whispered some advice to him. "Perhaps you should try to stop drinking on the job." Bond sloped off to his room. He continued the physically exhausted act right up to his door. Maybe without his presence they would try something against the girl. Well, this would be his parting shot at a clever opposition. People who'd never shown their cards unless in a direct threat to himself. But the two assassination attempts were certainly one hell of an opening gambit.

At 7am the next morning the click-clack sound of the Rolls Razor, stropping its blade to a fine edge, filled the small bathroom. The 1930's model was a fad of Bonds'. A trusty piece of kit he'd used for years. After shaving he unscrewed the handle from its safety head and reattached it to the central pinion in the nickel plated box. Drying the blade thoroughly he placed it back on the sharpening cone and snapped the box shut. Bond enjoyed the cold precision of such instruments. Testing the smoothness of his shave with his fingers he applied a Lentheric astringent. Just as he was using the styptic pencil, a faint rustle from the bedroom disturbed his concentration. He absently trailed an index finger through condensation on the mirror, tracing the white scar line on his cheek. Then he went to the door and immediately saw the slim packet that had been pushed under it. A white DL envelope lay at an odd angle on the mat. Bond knelt down and looked at the suspicious package. There was a small bulge on one side. Even that much explosive was enough to blind a man. He got up slowly and tore the cover off a magazine, slid it carefully underneath the envelope and gingerly carried it into the bathroom. While filling the sink with water he took up a little bakelite box and unwrapped a fresh razor blade.

He held the packet up to the light. No seal. No trap? Just a single dark object in the corner. Keeping the envelope flat he scored a line across the opposite end. Carefully, very carefully, he teased the paper apart. By gently blowing into the gap, widening the tube, he managed to see inside. A black, circular looking object, rather like a liquorice tablet, with two fat copper wires sticking out of it, lay in the far corner. There was no trace of an electrical contact, or any other mechanism. Bond lengthened his first incision, slitting the envelope fully open in one long stroke. Then with a calm deep breath he stood back and tilted the packet until the black disk slipped into the sink with a dull plop. He moved away and stood in the doorway, staring hard at the component, or whatever the heck it was. After some initial fizzing, which forced a dash to the front door with a wet towel clamped to his mouth - nothing further happened. When he returned to the sink he noticed there was a strange indentation on the thing. Its centre had a purple sheen. Should he remove the wires? Perhaps not. Instead he released the water and using the razor blade scraped a specimen of the tar-like substance into a plastic packet, resealed the envelope and addressed the contents to London. The rest of the component he tucked safely into his hip pocket. At this stage it was too risky to let it out of his sight. Someone at last had decided to help him. But who? And what was more disconcerting - the fact that he'd been given a lead - or the fact that somebody knew he was working undercover . . .

A blade of sunlight cut through the trees lining the perimeter fence. It was a bright yet cold start to the day. Bond stood watching a group of ratings square bashing on the old parade ground. Their white tunics flashing in the wintry light. The briefing later that morning took place, to Bond's immediate concern, without Mercedes. He'd suspected as much. But to have removed her so cleanly, without even a mention of her absence riled him. Later he made several enquiries. But he drew a blank on each occasion. Now it was his move. Dare he contact Mathis? Dare he change tack at such a crucial point. In the end he decided to wait for transport to the Sub. Victorious had already been equipped with the Bathymetric tow. Alright, he would check every aspect thoroughly and wait for a chance to delay the sailing.

Bond went out of the briefing room and turned toward the submarine bays. In a dry pen lay HMS Astute, the Navy's latest attack submarine. Back from her maiden voyage she was being thoroughly checked. A group of steam suited engineers suddenly emerged from her forward hatch. They peeled of their silver helmets and began to relax on the coated deck. Astute would enter full service soon as an update to the Trafalgar class. Bond was struck by an eerie thought. In a nuclear holocaust the men in these subs were likely to be among the few survivors.  
After being welcomed aboard the Victorious Bond went straight to Captain Jennings' quarters. The corridors were cramped and a smell of grease and new oil faintly stained the scrubbed air. The man hadn't come aboard yet. His cabin lock was easily picked. Entering swiftly, Bond closed the door and went over to Jenning's desk. He took out the record book and order slips and carefully unsealed a classified admiralty packet. Luckily Jenning's orders had arrived before him. When the adjustment was finished and the slips replaced, Bond sealed the whole thing up again and left the room as he found it. In hold 3 he organised an inspection of his equipment, made a calibration adjustment, checked the charts that Mercedes had drawn up yesterday and busied himself with one duty after another for the next two hours. He had a duty watch to stand tomorrow and then a full day on survey. It would be a busy exercise.

At 1300 a call came over the com for him. Bond straightened his cap, knocked on Jenning's door and went on in. He saluted smartly, yet was surprised to see the man relaxing in his armchair as if nothing had happened. The wide desk had been pushed to the wall. The orders of the day were open and the slips detailing the patrols and countermeasures strewn about the desk.  
"Hello Bond. Any idea where your little colleague is? I've had the base searched twice. But I'm afraid it looks like a no show. If so, there'll be big trouble. She's AWOL. Wondered if you could add anything?"

"I'm afraid not sir. I looked for her this morning. Made a few discrete enquiries, but got nowhere. I just assumed she was busy on board. When I came aboard myself , of course I realised something was up." Bond paused and looked uneasy. "May I ask, sir, are we likely to be underway soon? Only I've got twice as much to do now, under . . . under the circumstances."  
"I've no doubt Commander. But you see we cannot leave without the Italian. I have orders here to make sure she is aboard. I'm not at liberty to say why. Classified. You understand?" 'Jennings was playing by the rules at least', murmered Bond.

"Of course, Sir. Perhaps I should contact Admiral Groom?" Jennings looked angrily at James Bond. "Yes . . . alright. Get him on the line. After all, this is your show, isn't it? At least for the first week." Bond smiled. He'd bought himself some time it seemed. Although he couldn't risk physical harm to the ship just yet. But if the situation continued the same, he'd make sure Victorious never sailed.  
"Admiral Groom? Yes, this is commander Bond. Sorry sir . . . No. I don't. That's the problem. I know. Yes, absolutely unforgivable Sir. We are all annoyed as hell. Sir might I suggest -Has she been ill? No sir. But it's the first thing we searched . . . . Yes sir. I shall tell him." Groom had hung up. Bond turned to Jennings and gave him the news.

"He concurs with delaying our sail. We must find her - or else!" Jennings tutted loudly and motioned Bond to carry on. Groom could be counted on to be an absolute pest, thought Bond. The irascible ol' devil was fuming. He would have to report the affair to the admiralty right away, in light of Mercedes mission duties and secret orders. When the codes he'd written on the priority sheet were shot down the wire, it wouldn't be long before Station S were on the line.

The drunken hands were covered in spittle. Long side burns covered the gaunt cheeks. The arms that carried Mercedes were thickly muscled and covered with hair. She lay across him like the pretty heroine in King Kong. This particular beast, gentle and kind, yet a beast all the same, had caressed her for the past hour. The bloated faces watching the stumbling figure arrive smiled and dribbled with glee. After she was set down on a long trestle table, dark eyes peered into the mess hall. Mercedes was still unconscious. A gravelly voice snarled horribly. "What's _she_ doing here?" There was a moment of confusion, several loud bangs, some food trays were upset and solemn oaths sworn. A youthful SE piped up.  
"Caval took her in sir. Dex ordered she be brought here for questioning. The snoops were about to go to the trench. Victorious is –"  
"You think I don't know what's going on? What did you think this would achieve? Take her back at once. I'll deal with Dex. It is of the utmost importance she be returned! Without knowing anything of us, or this place. Return her alive to barracks. No - wait - leave her at the point! Near refueling. Make it look as if she'd wandered off. Overcome by fumes . . . that sort of thing. Make it so."  
The thick lips scowled. Caval felt tired. It was a long way back. Nearly four hours of hard slog. He would need a rest and – the gravelly voice broke into his gloomy thoughts, as if it had read them from a book.  
"Take Nassim, Caval. He can help. I want her back immediately you understand - alive – and within three hours. Get a bloody chopper if you have to!" The figure retired into the shadows again. There hadn't been many mistakes until now. Nothing that could be followed easily or tracked to somebody. But today they had made an error that was traceable. Not only traceable but easily exploited. Bond had won his first real Battle it seemed He had drawn them out. Well, perhaps it was time M earned his keep!

**Chapter 12**

**Operation REDAX**

Bond was sat comfortably inside the Vanquish. It was time to use the weapon he'd specially requested from Q. He'd only get one shot at it. The micro cylinders had been flown in from America – at no expense spared. So he'd better make it good. If not Q would have his hide! Both he and Mercedes had been issued with REDAX. A Ribo Engineered Data Xpulsor. The cylinder host, about 8 millimeters long and three wide, carried millions upon millions of chemically built chains of automatons, all able to make trillions of computations. A biological computer which could gather information from a targets DNA. It entered into the cells and detected various compounds, formed by the interaction of 'programmed' protein chains. The data was then 'transmitted', by a means of chemical signatures collected from the subject back, to the host cylinder. The homing signal would be decrypted by a monitoring agent, in this case Bond.

Bond had bargained on them interrogating Mercedes closely – but then returning her as quickly as possible, before the usual traces could be made. She had been trained to deploy REDAX in several key situations. REDAX itself could not be easily detected. Only immediate tests would disclose the nanobots, as the protein chains would quickly disperse under attack from the target's immune system. Bond had bet they would expect a trace of some sort, but hopefully nothing as sophisticated as this. This test was the first of its kind outside of a lab. All he had to do was activate the cylinders at the right time. On deployment the target would be riddled with the nanoparticles. The cylinder deployment was the key event. In Mercedes case Bond hoped during the close contact of interrogation, for instance a drink, or, god forbid, during sex. He hadn't got long. In five hours the bots would be useless. But each target cylinder could send its collected data up to a distance of twelve miles.

The gathered information would reveal the target's cellular damage patterns, and more importantly, the possible presence of ENFalcon. As he flicked back the dull top of the cigarette lighter and depressed the button, for once James Bond crossed his fingers. Expulsion would occur as long as the target was within range. Now he must deploy cylinders on Admiral Groom and Jennings.

After two days Sir Miles Messervy had had enough of thinking about Leonard Pettigrew. He had noticed several anomalies in his quarters and was busy trying to work out the whys and wherefors. Firstly his cell was unevenly built. Holding a mess tin of water against the riveted wall had disclosed a tilt of roughly six degrees from vertical. Placed on the floor the water rested even. He therefore concluded the floor had been strengthened and leveled. But Why? A curious difference in the solidity of the walls on three sides gave him a clue. He reckoned the furthest was an outside wall, perhaps the hull of a ship. The oval cell door added to this conclusion. It appeared he was being held in either a ship's cabin – stripped and rebuilt as a cell, or was inside a pumping station of some sort. Either way this room had at one time been watertight. He pushed his lank hair back from his forehead to his neck in one smooth action. The atmosphere in the cell was stifling. He was sweating heavily. M sat down and took a swallow of water. Most likely he was on a ship in dry dock . . . Perhaps she was up on stilts, not set entirely vertical. A gunboat, or an old MTB? Nothing modern was constructed like this old tub. That outer wall might be thicker due to armour plate . . . M went over the clues and his various conclusions again and again. There was no evidence of tidal motion. There was no sound of the sea, or other traffic. Therefore he must be in dry dock, or beached. Beached. By god! Yes, that would explain the list. The rust and salt laden atmosphere leant itself to him being kept on a rescued vessel . . . M stopped his deductions. He paled a little. But what if he were being kept on a sunken vessel? No, that . . .

There was a bang at the door. Two hooded characters stepped in. M caught a glimpse of a bracelet on the taller one. It was studded with purple jewels of some description. His heart missed a beat. Good lord – he was going to be interrogated! Now everything clicked into place.

The two hoods took him by the arms and frog marched him out. The long gangways and corridors were misty. Salt spray continually dampened the air here. The battered corridors of rusted metal . . . M caught sight of a dial. It was a steam pressure switch. Probably for hosing – there were German looking characters in its red zone. A faded enamel plate with Black Letter and a crested insignia pointed away into the bowels of the ship. M began to pant hard. Impossible to catch his breath in this soup of an atmosphere. No damned air! His head began to spin. The eagle crest stayed with him as they carried him down two more flights of stairs. A flickering emergency light lit the way. The claustrophobic atmosphere was crushing him. They stopped abruptly at a new bulkhead. Hard to focus now. The watertight door opened slowly. A new type . . . where in hell was he? On the stairs he could have sworn he was back on a destroyer from the war – now glaring lights and white corridors whizzed by. The answer came of course, as the arms that kept him upright and moving dragged his heels across the black scarred lino. But to M's fading consciousness it just wasn't possible. He must be hallucinating. How else could he be inside a German Battleship . . . A ship that lay six degrees off vertical, at the bottom of the sea.

The assassin had taken up his position early that morning. Now the assault rifle, set on a Marstar bipod, was traversing Bond's lean figure. There was no need for a scope at this range. The target was merely fifty yards away, and with this arc of fire it was a duck shoot. However, it was only to be a warning, not a kill. Too bad! Massimo thought - but he was under orders.

Bond walked from the Vanquish trying to imagine the nanobots coursing round his target. He couldn't, but it seemed a natural instinct to try. The first solid metal round hit the gold braid on his shoulder epaulette, cutting it clean in two. The next went zinging past his ear. Bond hurled himself to the floor and in one lithe action rolled under the Vanquish and freed his gun from its holster. He activated the cars automatic weaponry, then abruptly cancelled the order. He wouldn't be brought to the open so easily. Perhaps Mercedes wasn't too far away. Maybe this was the drop off? The next round kicked up asphalt into his eyes. A rapid burst expertly raked the car, each round buzzing and clanging off the armour plate. Bond quickly worked out that the sniper was on the rooftop directly ahead. He crawled between the front wheels and got off two shots. An extended burst from the roof pushed him back again. His arc was bad. The angle too steep. But returning fire would at least encourage the man keep his head down. Bond quickly rolled out and knelt down by the back wheel. He got off two more shots, then ran toward a tarpaulined four tonner parked a few yards to his right. There was no retaliation. He was out of sight now. Bond reloaded and fired three shots at intervals along the roof. Reloading again he scoured the parapet. There was nothing to see. Failing to catch sight of the assassin he ran a zigzag toward the building, and then sprinted like a madman to the stairwell doors as another burst chased his heels.

Determined to get his man, he turned inside and ran up the first flight of stairs. A burst of machine gun fire immediately clattered down the well. Another gunman – or one professional who knew the ropes? Throwing himself hard against the wall he watched several bullets slam into the plaster above his head. Surprised he hadn't been hit, Bond rushed up to the next floor. Doors began to open on the landings and he yelled for everyone to stay inside. Another long burst raked the stairwell beside him and ricocheted off the railings. Bond made a leap to safety in a dimly lit corridor. A window suddenly caved in and he guessed the attacker had finally made a jump for it. Christ! they were two floors up? Maybe thirty feet. Bond climbed out onto the fire escape and saw the thin rapelling line. He looked into the car park as he heard a car engine roar into life The old estate went tearing off toward the main entrance. Leaping down the gantry he got a clear picture of the escaping car, and a fleeting look at the assassin. Bond pulled himself up short. There was no time for pursuit now. In all the excitement he'd nearly forgotten he must deport REDAX on Groom and Jennings. That was his priority. He must stay on track at all costs.

Somewhat later than he expected alarms began to whine dolefully across the base, and two provost vans hit the car park with a screech of tyres. Armed officers dashed out of the blue vans and trained their binoculars and sniper rifles at the rooftops. Bond walked coolly over to the massed MP's and explained the trouble. "It was probably a lunatic bursting in here and taking pot-shots. He'll be racing through the main gate by now. Sorry, I couldn't stop him."

"Not to worry. He won't get far, Commander. We've gone into immediate lockdown." Bond smiled at the word immediate. Then gave the number plate of the vanishing car and a short description - all he had - and within fifteen minutes was waiting outside Admiral Groom's office.

"So your epaulette was shot clean in two, hmm? Demmed fellow! Lucky escape, if you ask me. Whisky?" James Bond sat down in the padded armchair and glanced round the trim office. "  
"Yes. Thank you. Admiral, I'm afraid the base fell rather short of an 'immediate' lockdown. I suspect the sniper got away."  
"Oh, he won't get far. Believe you me. We'll get him alright. This facility is miles from the nearest big town or airfield. I – "

"But not the coast sir." Bond interrupted. "Plenty of charters run from here."

"I see. So you think he's got a lady afloat, eh?" The Admiral was calmer than Bond had expected. But when he turned to pick up a sheaf of reports Bond casually slipped the REDAX into his drink. The solution had already been activated so he would be able to receive the admiral's 'scan' within the hour. "I expect so sir." He replied, matter of factly, "But let's wait for the reports, shall we?"

Groom spat out an acid drop and took a long swallow of Whisky. Bond attempted to engage him in conversation, but the Admiral had something else on his mind, other than a light hearted trip down memory lane.

"Couldn't find anything on your last assignment Commander. Who were you with again?"  
Bond uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "Abroad sir. All a bit hush. If you want something specific you can always contact my command."

The Admiral got up from his seat, his glass in hand. He pointed to a thick document that lay on a nest of tables beside Bond. "Take a look at that, will you?"

Bond put his glass down and, glad of the diversion, glanced at the title. What he read brought him immediately to his feet. He quickly drew his PPK, and leveled it at the Admiral's chest   
"Alright Groom. If this is cards on the table time, then start talking." The Admiral laughed briefly, sat down and grinned. His eyes fixed on Bond's automatic.

"I wondered when you might catch on OO7. We knew precisely who you were of course. It has been interesting to watch both of you flo –" Groom stopped speaking and shuddered several times. He started the sentence again.

"Interesting to – watch," he continued with enormous effort, his face turning bright red.

"Everything alright sir?" Bond asked, pouring him a glass of water. Groom was shaking his head. He seemed to be choking on something. Bond stepped forward. He pointed to the acid drops, but the bulging face stared back in strained surprise. Groom shook violently. Bond put away the gun and folded the thick report into his inside pocket. A smouldering fire was beginning in Groom's hands and a pale but strong smelling vapour had started to filter from his uniform. Bond went quickly round the table. "ENFalcon? Is that it? Have you been exposed to EnFalcon?"

Groom signaled for Bond to pass him the water. Bond tilted his head back and

tried to hold him still while tipping the water into his frothing mouth. The man's tongue was terribly swollen and the burning was getting worse. The steam or smoke, or whatever it was, seemed to be coming from his pores.

"For Gods sake Groom! You're dying. At least help me now. Where's your pride

man?" The Admiral seemed to understand and motioned for a pen. But by the time he had hold of it he was slipping into unconsciousness. His eyes sealed over as Bond examined him. The balding bulbous head slumped heavily to one side. REDAX had no doubt caused a destructive reaction in his cells. Bond had inadvertently killed the fellow. He stood away and watched the body twitch, its skin flaking dryly onto the desk. After several minutes what remained was almost unrecognisable as a man. It shocked bond, whose following thought was only for Mercedes. The whole show was on the line now. Whatever decision he made next would make or break the operation. He took a final look at Groom. A white crust had formed across twhat was once the Admiral's face. The poor man had blistered to death. Bond decided to send the strange device he'd received to station S. But first he needed was a courier he could trust.

**Chapter 13**

**A friend of yours, Mr. Bond?**

The fist slammed into M's side again. The softening up had taken longer than Oats had expected. "The old boy's tough. But it won't be much longer, sir," the Yeoman reported, stepping away to wipe his sweating face and hands with a grimy towel. A gnarled hand touched his shoulder as he leant forward to continue. "It's alright Yeoman. I shall take it from here. Dismissed."

Oats motioned to Dexter. "He's about ready sir." Dex sauntered over and stood above the head of the British Secret Service. His heavy bulk, ox -like, a brutal energy rising directly from the man. He looked down into the grey eyes hidden behind a veil of red. Dex poured some water into a paper cup, smiled and handed it to Sir Miles.  
"Take it please. It might be the last chance you'll get." M looked into the cup. Dexter smiled. He swallowed a mouthful himself then offered it back. Sir Miles took the cup, sniffed at it – then drank quickly. Dexter poured out another and M drank again. The Captain politely waited for M to settle.  
"That's better. I want you to be comfortable. Able to give me some information. Oh, nothing at all compromising. Don't worry. Nothing your Prime minister would be concerned about. After all we are all on the same side!" The husky laugh rang out loud, but descended into a rasping cough. When Dex recovered, M had calmed a little. He was rested, watered and ready to fight gain. The dull ache in his side was indicative of a broken rib, but that was the least of his worries. What the hell was Captain Dexter after?  
"Tell me about Leonard Pettigrew, Miles. What do you think of him? How do you rate him?"  
M couldn't conceal his surprise. So it was Pettigrew he wanted to know about. Or was it?

M began slowly. "Sir Leonard isn't a man I know well, Captain. Oh, I know something of his virtues and a little of his vices – but of the man himself. Not much. It's anybody's guess what he's doing now."  
"He sent you here! Don't look surprised. I asked what you think of him?" The voice had changed. The friendly smile had faded. M knew that to humour this man would be a mistake; better make a clean breast of it. He began again, saying testily.

"Alright. I think Pettigrew wants the top Job. My Job. I think he will stop at nothing to get it." Dex nodded sharply. "Well done. We are getting along nicely. And what has he stolen lately? Apart from your job." M looked at the floor and shook his head. A crushing blow suddenly hit him in the neck. It sent him reeling. Oats stood back to attention. When M got back to his knees Dexter was looming over him. The animal instinct bristling. "Enfalcon is the answer Miles! You know it. And I know it."  
M coughed hard. Dex looked primed to strike him down again. M glanced upwards and spoke gloomily.  
"Alright. I suspect Leonard Pettigrew of stealing state secrets. But I'm telling you nothing you do not already know." Dex smiled and unholstered his automatic. He affixed a silencer then tossed the weapon onto the floor in front of M. "Pettigrew doesn't think much of you either. He's hampered your investigation. He's tried to topple your best men. He's invaded your service and taken liberties with its staff, its budgets, its hired kill – I'm sorry, Its double 0 section. I also hear he enjoyed re-modelling your old office. His feet have been resting beneath your desk M. And I'm sure that, by now, you know he is a traitor. You know he has all the secrets of ENFalcon and intends to use them. So take up that weapon Sir Miles, and you will find Sir Leonard Pettigrew on deck three. He is going to be looking for you – I might add. It's personal!" M snatched up the weapon and held it steady.  
"Don't think I'm a fool. The ammunition is also on deck three. Here is the key to the locker. H34. Happy hunting. Find and kill Pettigrew before he kills you. If you can. He's quite mad you know. So I'm afraid it really is kill him, or be killed. I shall be watching on monitor from the base. I guarantee there will be no interference. And be careful. Much of this ship isn't watertight . . . Cut backs you see . . . You will let yourself out I hope." The smile had returned. M checked his weapon. Dex saluted and went out. The cell door was left wide open. It seemed to M that he really had no choice whatever in the matter. But would Pettigrew try to kill him? And how much of what Dex said could be relied on?

The sound of a steam driven drill hammering away filtered through the semi conscious ears of Mercedes Bouvret. When she finally awoke the jack hammer had risen to an ear piercing level. All she could see was packing crates, lifting gear and the rusted corrugated iron doors of a warehouse. She pulled away her gag and sat upright and took several deep breaths. If she was near the docks then the submarine pens were only yards from here. But where in the hell had they taken her? The heavy sedative hadn't completely worn off. She still felt muzzy and sluggish. Her limbs begged for sleep, but she managed to crawl out of the warehouse and into bright sunshine. It increased her headache. She stumbled across the wharf and up onto some rails. The fresh sea air brought her round a little, and it wasn't long before she was spotted by a search party. They immediately drove her to the hospital. But where was Bond, and what was happening? They should have sailed aboard Victorious hours ago. Mercedes recalled her kidnapping in dulled fragments. A chopper ride . . . a boat – small - tug like . . . a ship of some sort . . . No. It was useless to try and remember now what had happened. She had to find James. She must tell him about M.

The cutting of the stones was almost finished. Thousands of ten carat crystals had already been loaded into crates. Dex moved through the watertight rooms with ease. His face aglow. He raked a swollen fist over an open crate. Each purple stone glistened with its deadly dew. To maximise the process of oxidisation and to ensure enough combustible material remained a ten-carat size was decided upon. The resulting explosion was equivalent to one hundred times the same mass of C4. A single case would be enough to cause terrible casualties if detonated in an inner city. Any vessel targeted might be vapourised.   
"Make ready for abandoning this facility as soon as the last case leaves for Vanguard."

The order was saluted by two elderly looking men. The fact they were still in their early thirties hadn't escaped Dexter Seaton. ENFalcon was extremely dangerous in many ways – but Dexter was only interested in its explosive powers. Lt. Commander Mulgrave approached and saluted. The thin face of the Lt. was wracked with strain.  
"We are clamping cases to the Trident warheads Judge. For ENFalcon to ignite the material we will need to pack Vanguard's hold full of cases. Are you sure there are enough? We promised four tons to the Russians . . . And they have already paid for the shipment."

Dex pondered for a moment, his hand playing across the automatic pistol beneath his gown.

"It's alright, Mr. Mulgrave - we have enough. Calculations have been made. You just get the stuff aboard and await my instructions. I trust you'll not want to be around for the fireworks."

The resulting atomic devastation near the deep sea trench would discredit the British Government world wide. The project was internationally joined and many men were on the rig above the trench. Powerful Men, from powerful nations. But remarkably the Dutch, Scottish and English coastlines would avoid contamination. The resulting element formed by exposing ENFalcon to thermo nuclear temperatures was the deadliest secret Seaton had come across. Four years of research had produced only a handful of the stuff. And he was living proof of its power.

A message came in from Station S. Bond picked it up on the scrambled Bowman. The Vanquish remained his only link with LHQ and its satellite stations. The specimen he'd sent over for analysis had not been encountered before. But the best guess they'd could give him pointed toward a trigger device. The material had oscillated at precise frequencies when tested in a range of experiments. The pulsing of the central stone was akin to that found in a simple quartz crystal. But this stuff could take one heck of a battering before it fractured. It had withstood pulses greater than that required to trigger nuclear devices. Bond tossed the information to and fro for a while. It was clear there was to be an enormous bang soon. But where and when? There was only one thing to do. Wait until they told him. He had been sidelined long enough. The Whole place stank of ENFalcon and its various maladies. Madness, power, greed and ultimately, death. But how many more deaths? For they it was the only thing that surrounded this cargo. He switched on the computer and saw that Mathis had left him a brief. He decrypted it and knew at once that M was mixed up in the troubles. An envelope had been intercepted by Special Branch in London and turned over to LHQ. It had originally been addressed to Colonel Tanner at a safe house. Security had picked it up and the short length of sticky tape it contained analysed. The salts were a derivative of ENFalcon. There was only one answer, Pettigrew! He was interrupted by a Military Policeman knocking on the side window. Bond motioned for the man to stand back. When he got out the officer blurted that Lancia Corleoneone had been found at the loading bays and was trying to recall where she'd been taken. Some kind of kidnapping had take place. The base was still on secure lockdown so it had to be an inside job. Bond smiled craftily – amazed at how slow these fellows caught on . . .

He followed the doctor into Beaty wing and glanced through the safety glass window at Mercedes. She looked battered, but alive and in one piece. "Can I see her doctor?"

"I should think so. But not for too long. I'll come in with you." Bond picked up her file. The medical charts detailed concussion, heavy sedation and shock. When he flipped the report back to the beginning she asked to talk to him alone. Bond nodded and the doctor left.  
"James, we must act fast! I have reason to believe M is being held prisoner where I was taken. I don't remember much, but I saw some writing scratched into a panel. I think I was on a ship. To be honest it wasn't an ordinary ship. It was old. A wreck, or a beached vessel perhaps . . ."

"What did the writing say, exactly?"

"I can only remember the beginning – 'EdLabs . Sixpence.' And then something . . . I think was 'Repulse.' Yes the last word was Repulse! As I woke at the docks I realised it was a code. Sir Miles had a picture of the Repulse in his office didn't he? . . . Could it be a message? I know he is missing and many people are worried." Bond recognised the code. The first words combined to form an anagram of Blades. The second required the slang word for a sixpenny piece - Tanner! And HMS Repulse was M's command in the 50's. Sir Miles had to be there. But where? And on board which vessel?  
"For god's sake try to remember Mercedes," rapped Bond. "What did you smell, hear or see ? take it slowly, but think girl, think!"

M had traversed the whole of deck three without finding anything or anyone. There was certainly no crazed Pettigrew waiting to blow his brains out on the next corner. He was sure of that. The place was empty. The whole game had proved wild goose chase. But why had they set him free like this. For the fun of it? Perhaps . . . He sat down and wondered how the hell he could get off this damned boat. Of course by now he knew exactly where he was. The salt spray that misted the atmosphere was to keep the old girl from drying out too quickly. If she did she would buckle and condemn the new installations. Every possible exit to another level – including the engine rooms below - had been welded solid with new plate. Amazed by the ingenuity shown, he had a faint sense of enjoyment on walking around the German Battleship. It was either the Bremmen or the Kronprinz. More likely the Kronprinz. Her enormous size and magazine placement indicated the more heavily armed Battleship. There were magazine shoots and lifts every where. Ammunition would have passed up these to feed the deck guns. He got up. The choking atmosphere hadn't affected his judgement. He would try to find a way out. A minisub? There must be another way into the remodelled stern sections. He was already armed, if without ammo, but even a bluff was worth a try. Time nagged at him. Everyone had seemed in such a big hurry when he was set free - If his release could be called freedom. Yet 3 deck was simply a much bigger cell. Of course it was entirely possible they had left him stranded . . . M stopped his contemplations. It was time to act.

Massimo Firenze eased his aching body off the hard mattress. For the past two hours, his mind had quietly filtered each job for a connecting thread. From the outset his missions had been thoroughly abstracted. The scare on Bond being the easiest, easy money as they say, but could only be seen as a wasted the opportunity. After his first directive to follow Bond was retracted he'd wondered where the spy fitted in to all this. The subsequent capture and delivery of that 'War Hero' – the sloppy over decorated Naval Lt, that directive also seemed out on a limb. His swift disposing of the girl Bond had befriended at his Hotel was awkward. On both counts there would be an exhaustive enquiry. And now this final target; destroy a bloated Captain in the Navy . . . What was the controller thinking? Massimo sighed. He hated a job that didn't tie up. Logic was the only way forward in his business. Two of Alpha team had died during the recent proceedings, both headless corpses found washed up with the tide. Executrix 3 was a beautiful girl . Such a pity . . . He vaguely wondered if that was how he'd end up.  
But Agent Firenze wasn't paid to think, or reason why. The thick wad of money that lay at the foot of his bed was there to replace his conscience. He looked at it often enough, tenderly, as if it were a penitent child that he should forgive, many times. He sighed and stood up.

A sharp hunting knife lay opposite him, still atop its wet-stone. He had honed the blade to perfection last night. He picked it up and toyed with it carefully. The steel edge caught the light from the tiny window. Massimo was always prepared. Always ready for trouble. However clichéd that might sound. He knew that if a man stuck to the very basics of his profession, he might survive for any length of time. Long enough to have something to fall back on at least. Massimo was already thinking of retirement.

He glanced at the small photo of Captain Dexter. The brief had described him as a renegade. A man to be destroyed within twelve hours. Looking at his watch now he calculated there were nine hours left. A man could live a lifetime in nine hours – especially if he knew they were his last . . . But the target would be lured, the meeting arranged, – his thinking was interrupted by a creak on the stair. In a flash Massimo was on his feet and crouched behind the door, the hunting knife pressed deeply into his palm. A Colt automatic lay two paces away on a table. Massimo listened. No further noise. Lowering himself to the floor he rolled onto his side and tipped the table with his foot. Its top bounced off the bed and the gun fell within reach.

At that point machine gun fire ripped through the door - rounds cutting through the woodwork and plaster like a chain saw. Massimo's money fountained into the room. Jagged strips of dollar bills filling the air. He fought to hold his breath among the splinters, paper shreds and dust. When the long burst stopped Massimo was still crouched down by the wardrobe. A jam, or a reload? He was half way to the tiny window ledge by the time the door caved in. Suddenly there was a sharp coldness in his back. Dropping to his knees he turned, and looking up through the gun smoke saw a tall figure. What he saw scared the life out of him. The swollen purple eyes that met his own seemed alight from within. Unable to move his legs, his arms shivering uncontrollably, Massimo began to scrabble along the floor. The intruder's bullet had severed his spinal chord, but he was still crawling. All the while those strange eyes watched him. As the intruder followed Massimo's fingers seeking for the latch on the window frame the room grew quiet again. Quiet and very cold. He had no strength left to open the window, no leverage. A foot pressed down hard into his groin, but he couldn't feel it. Only when the gnarled fingers took him by the throat did Massimo actually recognise who was taking his life.

**Chapter 15**

**ENFalcon**

_BSSHQ London._

There was nothing worse than untidy orders. In the Civil service a man must know his place, his duty and his job. All three went hand in glove. But there were times when the judicious use of each brought its own rewards. A claim on another minister could be pressed, eased off, then solved. That man would then owe a debt. Being squeezed hard in any job was never a pleasant affair. After years of patient work Sir Leonard Pettigrew had many such men, in diverse departments, under his wing. He had just finished compiling a diplomatic pouch, ensuring every loose end of his involvement in the ENFalcon case was acceptably tidy. Pettigrew was a calm and patient man under pressure. And if he kept his head today, by sunset he would be the sole owner of the remains of ENFalcon and the head of the British Secret Service. He would then send the diplomatic wallet to Station C, and follow up the pouch in person in three days. Four years of planning would have come to an advantageous end. The evidence of the undersea base would have been destroyed, the mutineers finished. And the agents most faithful to M either reconditioned or reassigned. But he would be left with all the power and funds he'd ever dreamed of, quite legitimately. The Prime Minister was backing his strategy one hundred percent. Amazing how a properly formed entourage formed watertight ranks.  
The final trip to Scotland he had proved two counts of LHQ involvement; M was in league with Captain Dexter, and his agent, Bond, was tied to him on a cover up operation.

Sir Leonard Pettigrew was charmed by the thought of all this. He hadn't felt quite so pleased for a long time. It was a shame he couldn't have stayed in Scotland to watch the outcome of his efforts. Bond should be arriving at M's prison soon, albeit too late. M would be smeared with the Market Garden blunders and the secret use of funds to cover them up.  
Secondly, Captain Dexter Seaton would be dead in – he glanced at his watch - two hours. Vanguard's last mission! Operation _Purple Garden_ could finally be put to rest. As something of a bonus, lately he had won the trust of Col. William Tanner. C.O.S. A copy of the report James Bond had sent in was destroyed yesterday - M's last communications shredded. All in the means of protection of course. 'No use in rubbing the traitor's nose on the ground in public. That wouldn't do at all.'  
Pettigrew lit a large cigar and leaned back in his new chair. The spring creaked gently as he swayed beneath the long coils of blue smoke. He would covertly deliver the remains of ENFalcon to Moscow, as arranged, sink HMS Vanguard in the process, causing a serious incident near the international waste facility. HMS Astute would then take care of all that. At 0600 hrs he had raised the alarm officially. Disclosure of the plots at Faslane and Scapa Flow had been passed to Naval high command and a 'most immediate' communication had gone off like a broadside to HMS Astute:

_Admiralty Order 2387463/9339 –EPV_

_Action Immediate. 'ENFALCON'_

'_Intercept SSBN Vanguard. Arrest Captain Dexter Seaton. Capture craft. Do not destroy._

_Trident warheads must be recovered. End.'  
_

Now the proper authorities would complete his mission. The only trouble remaining was Mr. Firenze. Two of his accomplices had been taken care of, but the fellow himself was so very persistent. Where might he go after Dex had been dispatched? Pettigrew mulled the question over for a while. Perhaps he could put Tanner onto it. Sir Leonard pressed the intercom switch on his telephone. "Miss Foulkes, ask Chief of Staff to come in will you."

HMS Vanguard was underway. Her small crew doubling up on duties. Dex had not sailed with her, instead he had flown back to Scapa Flow. The detonation of the undersea base would be delayed. Roberts had informed him that Bond and Mercedes were on en-route by Merlin to the Orkney's. They would take some time to reach the Kronprinz Willhelm. Now, as Dex sat looking from the two-seater window, he wondered how on earth Pettigrew thought he could get away with murder? His murder. 'What a rash doublecross! The man was pitiful.' Dex sighed to himself. Of course he had no intention of sinking Vanguard, or of making nuclear threats. He wanted ENFalcon, or what was left of it. What Pettigrew didn't know was that when mixed with fissionable material ENFalcon's dark-energy formed a new element. Soon - under his direction - ENFalcon would demonstrate its full potential to the world.

_HMS Astute – North Sea_

"Port 15. Steer North."

"Aye, aye sir"  
"We still have contact. Motor unit heading straight for us."

"Take us down to forty metres helm. All stop."

"Forty metres - All stop sir."

Captain Collingwood was concentrating hard on all the data available to him.

"Down periscope."  
"Down periscope."

As the refrain died Collingwood picked up the com and carefully swept his eyes over the chart. The display next to the paper roll sparkled like a christmas tree at him. In the dim light he checked his position twice against the latest undersea surveys. The international trench for Nuclear Waste Disposal lay two miles north west of Astute. An incident near the field would be unmanageable. It was to be avoided at all costs. Reports indicated the site was already a third full. The mayhem of an incident wouldn't be worth contemplating. Collingwood scratched his chin thoughtfully. 'What the hell was Dex playing at? What was his most likely course of action - to detonate a warhead? Perhaps not. Dump ENFalcon in the trench? More likely. Collingwood motioned to his chief of the watch. Edmonds nodded and immediately ordered the helmsman to alter the bow planes again. Astute dipped to a thirty degree angle and dived deeper. The grey waters slipped silently past her smooth hull. As yet she bore no depth signatures or ripples in her plating. The sleek hunter, killer, the 7,000 ton successor to the Trafalgar class, was fresh out of the paint shop. Collingwood tried to relax a little. The control room was stuffy and he felt cramped and uncomfortable. At first, of course, the crew were naturally apprehensive about taking on one of their own SSBN's, but Admiral Plantick had clearly explained the mission. 'HMS Vanguard has been stolen. Her missiles are being held hostage in a deadly game. She must be stopped. Sunk if necessary – but not destroyed. All the Trident Warheads must be recovered.' Particular emphasis was laid on the 'must'.

While the words still echoed in the ears of every submariner aboard, Collingwood stepped up to the com. "Sixty three metres! All stop"

He knew exactly what target could best disable Vanguard, that is without killing her crew. Shifting his pencil torch aside, he studied again the schematic of SSBN Vanguard. Laid out next to the plotter was her current muster. Astute hadn't been designed to be half-hearted in combat. New technology aboard included her powerfully updated armaments. And here lay Collingwood's most difficult decision. What weapon to use . . . He bit his lips as the navigator pored over the integrated suite - a Marconi Ferranti 2076.

"All stop!" the Captain abruptly ordered. He shifted his cap back and hissed long and slow. His decision was made. Passing the back of his hand across his brow he steadied himself. Until the opportunity arose he would have to play the waiting game.

"Emergency lighting – rig for silent running."

"Silent running. sir."

"Thirty on Port wheel, Captain."

"We have something sir. On a new tack. Coming in visual range."

"Port camera – on monitor!"  
"Nothing yet Captain."

"Let me know immediately we have visual contact ."

Collingwood handed the com to his chief and went along to his cabin. He was a 'Perisher' graduate. One of the Navy's top submariners. A man with his name emblazoned in gold on 'The Wall' in Plymouth's Submarine School. The fail rate on the course currently stood at 25. So, if anyone could pull this misson off, Collingwood could.  
For fifteen minutes Astute hovered in the depths, her passive sonar still showing a trace of the motored vehicle approaching her stern. The waters of the North Sea are cold and uninviting at any time of year. There could be no mistakes.

Everyman aboard froze to the spot as a scraping sound screeched down the port side of the boat. Collingwood made his way back to control.

"What the devil's that number one?"  
"Unknown as yet sir – but chief suspects it's an unmanned ROV."  
"Visual?"

"Sorry sir, still nothing at all. Bearing south, four six."

"Take us deeper helm. Sixty five metres. Keep signaling number one."  
Chief of the watch Lt. John Edmonds barked his orders down the com. "Mr. Cook, maintain contact with Vanguard. Continue surface and surrender signal. Let me know the moment she makes reply."  
Astute deepened her profile. But unseen at seventy four metres, a second ROV was emerging , waiting for her propulsor to pass by.

On board HMS Vanguard Lt. Mulgrave smiled as he watched his opponent angle his dive. The second ROV had been deployed an hour earlier. Alpha 2. was hidden deep, and by using a jury-rigged inflatable collar she now came up slowly to hide beneath Astute. Speeding the Delta ROV into her port side Mulgrave had hoped Astute's attention would be drawn by the decoy.

Alpha 2. stopped her ascent at sixty six metres. The explosive device secured tightly to the recovery arm gave the ugly steel claw a mummified look. Now, simply by waiting for Astute to pass over, he would detonate the device as near the propulsor as possible. In the hopeful event of fouling the sub would be rendered dead in the water.

In the back of his mind Mulgrave was constantly wondering if she would be open fire on him at that point . . . But of course there were many options to consider. One interesting fact intrigued him. On trials when nearing her top speed of 32knts Astute developed a starboard roll. Just three degrees had her dangerously buffeting men and equipment. Mulgrave was well aware of the problem. So if his plan failed and Astute gave chase it might just give him an edge.

"Launch decoys on my command!" Collingwood was taking no chances. Whatever was going on out there he suspected he was not seeing the whole plan. But if something was homing – under whatever power, it would be diverted by the 2066's.

"Decoys on standby, sir. No incoming yet."

"She won't fire upon us until she's baited the trap. I think Dex has something up his sleeve for us."

Edmonds stood alongside the captain. His cap in his hand. "If they are using remote torpedoes then we'll have a fair chance of avoidance if we go north west."

"You could be right. But my guess is he's already thought of that. I aim to go north-east. We'll fire a dummy - I think she'll counter measure. By then we'll be too close for her torpedoes, so we'll ram the port bow-plane.

"Yes, but remember, this man has had millions of pounds at his command - we don't know what he's got in store for us. Maybe she's armed with something entirely different. Could even be modified arms - "

"No point in speculating. I must decide the action on known information. On facts. We'll remain flexible enough to counter any offensive. John - I know we're up to the job." Collingwood smiled lightly, "Shrewdness and discernment! That's why they chose us – that's why she got her name! Ready tubes one and four Mr. Cook!"

"Aye, aye, tubes one and four Captain."

"Bring us about, Helm."

"There's something beneath us Captain! A small craft. It's not a torpedo, sir. Could be a second ROV. We are passing over it now."

The call surprised Collingwood a little. Had he taken his eye off the ball for just a second?

Lt. Mulgrave steered south and pointed his forward tubes at Astute. He was tired. He'd never felt more haggard in his life, but there was no crossing Dex! His number one reported sharply.

"She's passing right across Alpha right now sir. Eight seconds to critical position."

"Prepare to detonate Mr. Hollom." Mulgrave bit his lip hard. If this worked they were clear to set the charges and dump Enfalcon in the trench. The officer's escape suits were being made ready. Vanguard was carrying a minisub piggy-backed on her deck.

"Five seconds - four – three - two -"

"Detonate!" The boat dropped to a dead hush.

"ROV detonated successfully sir!"

"Secure for shock wave!"

The hollow sound of an explosion followed. Its boom ran slowly through the water. A deep thud suddenly echoed off HMS Vanguard as the returning shock wave hit her bow on.

"Hold fast. Damage control party to 'midships!"

Mulgrave studied his sonar display. "Bomb shop. Prepare for counter attack. Ready decoys. Arm three and four tubes Mr. Durbane." HMS Vanguard rose slowly to forty metres awaiting Astute's reply.

Captain Collingwood hissed through his teeth." Alright - settle down. Now we know what he's up to. Report damage."

"Propulsor, still turning sir. But a reduction in power. Maybe 30 percent . . . At a guess I'd say we have a buckled fin, possibly two."

"Commander Bond is signalling sir. Approaching in a minisub. Vanguard have launched a counter measure Sir, bit early in my view!"

"Let Bond wait. Don't relay our damage over the com! Teams report in person. Take us up to thirty metres. If Vanguard fires upon us, await decoy order."

The crushing explosion had shaken Collingwood's confidence a little. He had been struck. The enemy had drawn first blood! With reduced mobility he must decide on his next course – should he back off and take Astute and her crew out of danger? Could he outrun Vanguard if she chose to pursue? A damage report team were making their points; information being hurled at him in streams of abusive tones. He struggled to keep things together.

"Is she in pursuit?"

"No sir. But her for'ard tubes are open."

"Take us down – I want to come up on her orthagonally. Disarm three and four – I repeat disarm and prepare to fire." Edmonds came up to the plotter.

"Going to try and take out the bow-planes with an unarmed swordfish?"

But there wasn't time to try. Before Collingwood could give the order the mini-sub was cutting across Astute's bow and firing into Vanguard's propulsion unit. The turbulence from the shockwave hit Astute amidships. She rolled to starboard and the severe buffeting of both vessels perfectly covered Bond's escape. Against his better judgement he had detoured to help Collingwood, but now his only thought was to hope to god that M was still alive. Bond had levelled the playing field, surely Collingwood could win the day now. Vanguard would be dead in the water now. The modified minisub was a godsend. But she would take at least two hours to reach the scuttled German Fleet. He attempted to relax, then gave orders to plot the quickest route possible. The three-man crew looked grimly at each other as a wide trail of bubbles filled their vision. Shadows of civil war drifted across each man's face. But there was nothing more Bond could do. He had had to take the sub. A helicopter rendevous was impossible. The surface winds were now reaching gale force six. M would just have to hang on.

**Chapter 16**

**A short 'Goodbye'**

To hold a final ace when all the cards were down, was M's saving grace. The only trouble being was if it would come into play at all. He knew that if Bond were still alive he would attempt a rescue. Yet, by now, if anyone had worked out where this prison ship lay, someone from HQ would have come. Perhaps it was already too late. M decided to save his energy and sit tight. He had tried for many hours to break into the restored areas, but it was no use. The bulkheads were welded fast. There really was no escape from here - unless he found a divers suit and plenty of oxygen. The hapless 'duel' with Leonard had been the most wasteful of games. His energy had been sapped running about a rats maze without purpose. Pettigrew wasn't aboard. That was obvious, but M had a growing suspicion that Dex wouldn't leave go of his prey so easily. The end-game would be tense. Hunter and hunted jousting for position.

As the mini-sub approached the wreck of the Karlruhue, James Bond looked eagerly into her iron ruins. Through green waters he saw the outline of the bow. The boat had been holed amidships by salvage crews prospecting in the engine rooms during the 1970's. They'd entered the wreck by blowing enormous holes in the superstructure. Was that how he would get inside the Kronprinz, through one of those dammed black holes? Nearby, off Cava to the north, several battleships lay among the fertile waters of Scapa Flow. Bond's map of the site showed them up as colourful extrusions from the sea floor. His details included the latest 3 dimensional hydrographic survey. He turned from the viewing port to carefully study the blurry shape of the Kronprinz. She was tilted to starboard but still looked in excellent condition, for a boat scuttled in 1919. Another wreck suddenly appeared out of the gloom. It looked like a giant reef - full of orange dead men's fingers. Schools of Pollack were sheltering beneath its twisted plates. They hovered round the angled gun turrets before darting away beyond the lights of the sub. The wreckage of SMS Coln had recently claimed the lives of two divers. Bond put the facts to the back of his mind and readied his gear. He tested his re-breather and ordered Lt. Steven's to pressurize the escape chamber in five minutes. Martin adjusted the helm and called out his readings. All three men worked quietly, carefully completing their tasks until disturbed by a vast anchor chain suddenly scraping along the stern. As the mini-sub disturbed the debris field Bond gave a terse command then moved forward. He was in no mood for accidents.

In half an hour they were poised next to the wreck of SMS Kronprinz Wilhelm. The vast hull that soared above them. As they rose upwards Bond noticed her propellers were missing. Reaching the drop off point Bond judged that the top of the wreck lay in only twelve metres of clear water. He would have to swim down into the bows and take care not to be see. There may be patrols, even though they hadn't spotted anyone yet.

"Ready to deploy sir."

Bond prepared to leave the escape chamber. It had been pressurized to avoid giving him the bends. He tested his com line. As soon as he left the sub Stevens and Martin would surface, maintaining radio silence until Bond contacted them. If they had heard nothing after four hours the Admiralty would be informed, and a search party sent out.

Approaching the wreck through a forest of kelp, Bond was amazed by the immense size of the ship. From twenty metres away it seemed that a vast array of netting covered the hull. But as he got much closer he could see that it was actually thousands of brittle stars and anemones. He gripped onto a broken plate in order to heave himself and his packs across the encrusted weather deck. Finning with utmost care, one slip and he could puncture the gas bottles he was carrying, he searched for an entrance. He had just over forty minutes of air, with a spare tank positioned on the fore deck, so every minute counted. He began near the anchor wells. The structure here was rusted solid. The mini oxyacetylene torch and gas, with which to cut through outer air locks, was slowing him down. Fully aware of the time constraint, and the need for accuracy and clear thinking, he re-slung the pack onto his stomach. Clambering along the pointed bow, narrowly avoiding a dangerous tangle of rigging and wires, he discovered too late that the sponges and sea urchins were disguising razor sharp metal. A jagged edge tore into his acetylene pack. The snag delayed him nearly five minutes.Once he'd cut himself free he finned quickly toward the bridge in order to make up time. Alone this was a dangerous dive. Passing the forward turrets Bond glanced down. Below him lay some new lengths of steel and the remains of some aluminium shuttering. Nearby he noticed a rusted hatchway which had been welded shut. It was clear that alterations had been carried out along this stretch. He worked his way around a rusted capstan and crawled beneath one of the massive 5.6 inch guns, its turret still attached to the deck. Beneath it he found an open hatch way. Peering inside, left of the passage way, he could see the workings of the gun. In the torches yellow beam the corroded breach end shone a dull brassy colour. Beyond lay the interior, still pitch dark and uninviting. Penetrating the wreck was proving a slow process. The water was very cold and Bond knew he must keep going to stay warm. Eventually he folded himself in two and pushed through a small opening. Leaving the gunnery platforms he finned past a connecting lift to the magazine. On exiting a watertight door he became slightly disoriented. A moray eel slithered by him, the ugly striped skin was caught in the glare of his light. He jumped back and his tanks gave a loud clang against the bulkhead. Any noise underwater will carry for miles. Bond held his breath. After a few moments he decided to follow the corridors toward the stern. Until he found a new weld he would continue to explore the ghost ship.

Bond looked briefly into the crew's quarters which were situated almost directly above the engine room. There was not much time to explore. But it was at the end of this corridor he finally saw the glow of silvered metal. Unpacking the blow-torch he ignited the cutter and began to unseal the newly welded hatchway. It was a big gamble. If there were no airlock behind it he would risk flooding the dry compartments. He had no idea where M was being held, but hoped it was in the stern sections where the officer's cabins would once have been; in relative comfort, away from the noise of the engines. As the huge door gave way the force of water quickly shoved him into an empty compartment. He pulled his kit inside, looped a line around the door and tried to heave it shut, but the flood was so great that the hatch wouldn't close. By the time he'd made any headway he was up to his chest in water and the door was less than half shut. Suddenly he looked to the side and saw the new friction clutch of an automatic watertight door. It was just above him in a raised position. He wondered when the float mechanism would trigger the door's closure, or if indeed it was working. He drew his knife and clambered up the housing quickly to see if he could activate the thing. But an alarm rang before he'd made it to the top. The door began to close, a siren blaring all the while. It appeared he had well and truly announced his arrival.

The room was full of water by the time the flow had completely stopped. The door leading to the dry sections behind him still firmly closed. He would need to cut through it before proceeding. He switched off his air and swam to the housing. The locating sills were retained. The lock obviously operated from a control room on the other side of the hatch. It seemed the door couldn't be manually opened. Damn! Had he gotten all this way merely to have to turn back? And if he could cut the lock from the floor, would there be enough gas left to re-seal the hatch behind him? Bond swam away to consider the problem. As his feet touched the deck once more he realized the water level was falling. A drain had opened near him. He swung round and clung onto a duct to avoid being swept into the scuppers. In a few minutes the room was empty and he was stood stock-still, his breath condensing in the damp air. The drain had closed automatically. A red light flashed on the new door in front of him and slowly the steel shutter began to rise. Bond drew his harpoon gun and took cover, pressing himself hard up against the bulkhead. He watched the new MAFO door open. It was a new kind of maintenance free hatchway, not yet adopted by the Royal Navy.

He quickly recognised the face of the man beyond it. The bloated cheeks of Commander Dexter curved into a macabre grin.  
"Welcome Mr. Bond. There was no doubt in my mind that you would come. But of course I'm forgetting myself. I should offer you something for all the trouble you've gone through. A tiring day I suppose? Will you come along to my quarters? I can assure you they are most comfortable –" Bond interrupted the casual flow of small-talk.

"Where is Sir Miles Messervy Dexter?"

"Oh, we shall meet with him soon enough. He is as well as can be expected."

"I'd like to see him him now, Dexter!" Bond shoved his gun at Dexter's chest."Forgotten who's got the drop on who?"

"I'm not in the habit of forgetting anything Mr. Bond. And there is little point in thrusting that thing about in here. The whole place is pressurised. We are in a thinly clad part of the ship. You would collapse the entire installation if you fired and missed." Bond suspected the facts were groundless, but took heed just in case. "Take me to M! I'm not in the habit of missing."

"I'm not altogether sorry my little receptions for you were so unsuccessful. I'm almost happy to do the job myself!" Dex spun round in flash and knocked the weapon from Bond's hand. He struck him a crushing blow on the collar bone and Bond fell to the floor shrieking with pain.  
"There – now we understand who has got the drop on who, don't we?" Dex waited for Bond to recover. Bond reached out for his automatic tucked inside his dry layer, only to receive another blow, this time at the base of his skull. The man's hands felt like iron weights smashing into him. Dex picked up the gun and unloaded it onto the floor.  
"Better to be safe than sorry, what?"

Bond had only managed to palm a single round, but of what use would it be to him? They continued slowly on through the ship. Many of the corridors were so thick with condensation Bond was finding it hard to breathe. Dex moved ponderously. Bond kept a close eye on the plodding madman. The rusted stairwells and broken bulkheads proved intriguing. He peered into the shadows, trying to see what had survived nearly ninety years of submersion. The great depths of the ship lay beneath him. Is that where they were holding M? Before long he was shown down a buckled stairway. The whole place thickly covered in dead crustaceans. The septic briney smell was high and Bond felt heady as they finally reached the warmth of Dexter's cabin suite. But it was here he grabbed his chance. The long diving knife he'd worked carefully into his right palm shot forward and went deep into Dexter's side. He watched avidly as the purple eyes almost burst with shock. An odd hissing sound accompanied the man's fall to the deck. As he slid onto a grating black fluid poured from his mouth and nose and ears. Bond watched him coughing and spluttering. There was no more time for détente, he must get M out of here. Dex smiled thinly as he slowly climbed back to his feet. "I'm sorry but it is not so easy to dispense with me Mr. Bond." The giant fists lumbered into swinging punches. Bond dodged and stabbed twice again, plunging the knife deeper and deeper. Then he turned away, quickly heading back upstairs. Going up through the decks he shouted for M at the top of his voice. He could still hear Seaton's desperate thrashings fading behind him. He hoped the man was in his final death throes. A fatal kidney wound would result in an agonizing death.

On deck three M was sat pondering his ultimate fate when the echoes of Bond's voice alerted him. He stood up and cocked the empty automatic. Quickly making his way to the stairs he called out loudly twice. When the two men met there was a moments silence. Bond nodded his hellos and M broke into a smile.

"You're late OO7! I've wasted a good deal of time waiting for you."

Bond raised an eyebrow. His chief was still the spirited man he had always known. Although he looked like he'd just walked through hell. "I'm sorry sir," he began, "you left a very cold trail. Had no idea where on earth they'd taken you. Mercedes helped us figure it out." Bond caught the quizzical expression. "A helpful confidante," he offered. "Of course once we knew things how fitted together I –"

"Where is Dexter, dead?" M interrupted.

"Dying, I believe, sir"

"Then we'll keep an open mind. Got ammunition? I'm out. I suppose you know what these mad blighters have been up to here?"

"Yes. And I trust we can do something about Pettigrew, sir?"

"You leave Sir Leonard to me, OO7."

"Yes sir." M looked at Bond's weary face and down at his own ruined clothes. "Thank you James," he said quietly.

Bond nodded. "Now, if you don't mind sir – I've a spare kit in a hold near here. There's also fresh clip if you feel you need it. A mini-sub is waiting on the surface to pick us up. Fancy a spot of wreck diving?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Then follow me."

As M turned a shrill voice cracked and slurred in the echoing space of stairwell four, "How touching. The reunion of a killer and his erstwhile boss . . ."

James Bond turned to face the remains of Commander Dexter. The enormous bulk came at him out of the shadows. Blood soaked clothes trailed from his legs. The swollen pitted face, looking as close to a demon as a man could ever meet in the flesh. Shielding M from the threat Bond turned putting one hand behind his back. Immediately M saw the single bullet held between Bond's thumb and forefinger. He reached out slowly and grasped hold of it. Dexter moved a little closer to them. He was holding a short double edged knife. It was same kind of Dirk that Bond had taken off Henderson. The connection pulled a grim smile from James Bond's lips.

Dexter went on, "You two should be found together. Comrades to the end. I don't think either of you will have strength enough to stop me. You see ENFalcon has its many uses. You could say, I am ENFalcon now . . ."

"It's over Dexter. Vanguard is out of action. Astute has captured her cargo. Pettigrew is finished and so are you! Face it man." Bond continued, playing for time, hoping that by now M had loaded the bullet into the empty magazine. Would he take the shot, or hand the weapon to him for the deed? He slid his open palm behind him, beckoning for the gun. Dexter stepped in a little closer. M backed away still shrouded by Bond's frame. The stark shadow of Commander Seaton filled the room as his inhuman presence plodded nearer. Bond knew that going hand to hand with this man would be utterly useless. He suddenly sprinted away from M and called out. The gun left M's hands immediately and spun through the air. All eyes were upon it. Dex moved quickly towards M drawing his knife back to pierce Sir Miles' throat. Bond caught the automatic, crouched and fired. His heart almost stopped as M pushed past the heaving figure first and rolled to the floor. Dexter spun round blankly. It was then that Bond saw the neat round hole in his left temple. It widened at the top of the mans bulbous head into a gaping exit wound. The purple eyes rolled back. There was a muffled cry and the body swayed and collapsed to the floor. It shuddered several times before lying completely still.

M looked up at Bond, who said, "I think I should tell you I lost a great deal of the service's money, sir. Faslane is running a crooked casino for its - "

M interrupted him, "You'll have to do something about that OO7. I'm afraid your stipend must be perfectly balanced before you're issued with department funds again!" Bond gave a wry smile. From here on in it looked like business as usual.

THE END

91


End file.
